


your fake name is not for everyone but it's good enough for me

by hihoplastic



Series: we will become, become [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, F/M, human!AU, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 14:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 38,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1044969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John closes the door to his office and sags against the wood, one hand instinctively fixing his bow tie as he lets out a deep breath before shaking himself.  He’s being ridiculous.  He’s dealt with parents all his career—angry parents, grateful parents, gorgeous, model parents—and none have rattled him.  But then, none have also been <i>her</i>. Deep down, he thinks he's known from the moment he saw her.  Not necessarily that she was the object of the case he’s working, though he's fairly well convinced now, but that it was <i>her</i>, his <i>her</i>.  The girl he's been searching for for years.  The girl he never forgot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. become the glory and the guilt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rmnff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rmnff/gifts).



> \- For the RD AU Ficathon. Prompts: _1) Teacher AU River is a HS teacher and the Doctor is a single dad (vice versa), 2) Burlesque River is a dancer and the Doctor works at the club_ — I combined these two. I hope that's okay.  
>  \- Neda: I'm so sorry this is so late! It's probably not at all what you were expecting (it totally got away from me) but I hope you like it regardless.  
> \- Thank you so much to Pam who listened to me whine about this for ages. And for her dutiful reading and re-reading and coddling. <3  
> \- **WARNING:** This fic contains references to and mentions of physical and psychological child abuse. There's nothing graphic, but it does constitute a large part of the backstory. It's basically assumptions about River's past re: Kovarian, translated into a human!AU.  
>  \- Also: this is very much older!Doctor/younger!River.  
> \- Title and chapters from "Your Fake Name Is Good Enough For Me" by Iron & Wine

Rory chews on his bottom lip, small fist curling around a silver, feather boa. River smiles, crouched down next to him as she brushes a hand through his hair.

“This one?”

He nods fiercely, eyes wide and round as she pulls it off the rack, wrapping it over his shoulders like a scarf. It’s far too long, the edges dragging on the ground, but Rory grins up at her, cheeks puffed out and top teeth missing, and River finds she doesn’t care if it gets dirty or mangled. Not for the giggle she receives when she twirls him around, and the way he clutches the ends to his chest.

“It has _glitter_ ,” he breathes, awing at the sparkles coming off on his _Spiderman_ t-shirt and the skin of his palms. He reaches up and pats her cheeks, tickled when some of the glitter sticks to her face, and River rolls her eyes fondly.

“I think I’ve got enough of that on as it is,” she laughs, but Rory shakes his head firmly and parrots the familiar phrase,

“You can _never_ have too much glitter.”

River mock-sighs and gets to her feet, ruffling his hair, about to protest when Jack pokes his head into the stockroom.

“Did someone say glitter?”

Rory shrieks, launching himself at Jack, who scoops him up and turns him upside down by the waist. The little boy cackles, flailing tiny limbs until Jack flips him upright, perching him on his hip.

“Mummy said I could wear this tonight for the show, Uncle Jack, isn’t it pretty? It’s silver and soft, see?” He pushes the boa into Jack’s cheek. “I have to give it back ‘cause it belongs to the show but it’s okay if I keep it on ‘til we leave, right? It matches my shoes!” He swings his legs up, silver, sparkly ballet flats over his red socks.

Jack nods seriously and shoots River a wink. “I would be devastated if you took it off. It would be a travesty!”

Rory beams, and River smiles gratefully, approaching them to lay a hand on her boy’s back. “Places?” she asks, and Jack nods.

“Ten minutes. Oh. And your Wonder Boy’s back.” With a stilted flourish, he raises a bouquet of flowers.

River rolls her eyes, but takes them all the same, hunting for the card. It’s always the same: some ridiculous quote or fact on a card, buried in a haphazard bunch of flowers. She doesn’t know who they’re from, or why, but she gets them randomly, just her.

“What’s it say this time?”

River snorts. “ _‘Did you know: on average, half of all false teeth have some form of radioactivity? Break a leg! Not a tooth. x.’_ ”

Jack sighs dreamily. “I have got to find out who his man is. Or woman. Either way, if you don’t want ‘em…”

“All yours, honey,” she says, pushing the flowers back into Jack’s hand. She keeps the card, though, tucking it into a pocket in her robe.

Rory looks between them eagerly. “Do I get to watch tonight?”

River chuckles, taking him from Jack and cuddling him to her chest. Her robe is soft and pink, and Rory snuggles his face into the lapel. “Not tonight, sweetheart. You’re still a bit young to see Mummy’s show.”

It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, really—he’s been backstage with her enough that he finds the sight of half-naked individuals par for the course—and keeping him away is more for her sanity than his; taking her kit off in front of strangers is one thing, but she’d like to spare him (and herself) the therapy bills of seeing his mum in nothing but a thong and nipple tassels mock-fellating his “uncle” for as long as possible.

Rory pouts, but she assures him he’ll get to say hi to the girls after, and in the meantime he’ll get to stay in the greenroom with Donna. “She’s brought you some new books, and if you’re good, you can keep the door open to hear the music, okay?”

He brightens at that, and River sets him on the floor, pleased when he slides a chubby hand into her own. He’s nearly five, which according to him is “super old,” but she loves that he still clings to her and holds her hand of his own volition. Loves the smell of his shampoo and the warmth of his tiny body nestled into hers. She loves his enormous ears and high-pitched laugh and juxtaposing obsessions with both superheroes and lace. He grins up at her now, boa over his shoulders and specks of glitter on his cheeks, and she loses herself for a moment in his toothy smile.

Then Jack taps his watch and she nods, hurrying Rory into the green room where Donna’s waiting and giving him a smacking kiss before shedding her robe in her dressing room. She slips backstage with the other girls, exchanging good show wishes. She can tell by the noise that the crowd tonight is heavy, and a shiver runs down her spine as she checks her costume—or what there is of it—one last time.

The lights dim and the audience settles, and Jack sidles up behind her, a warm hand on her bare back. “Ready?”

River smirks. “As always. Are _you_?”

Jack laughs quietly as the music starts, and the first act slips on stage. “Sweetheart, I was born for show business.” River snorts, and Jack winks, giving her an appreciative once-over. “God, putting you in clothes is a sin,” he groans.

“I could say the same for you.”

Jack draws his eyes from her breasts, barely encased in a lace, see-through bustier, to her face. “Can’t argue with that,” he says, slaps her ass, and with a flourish, slides onto the stage to uproarious applause.

Nodding to the stagehand, River carefully and quietly as possible climbs the stairs and ladder to the catwalk, where another stagehand helps her into her dangling chair. She has no idea how she let Jack talk her into this, and every night curses him as she stares down at the stage from 20 feet up.

She doesn’t have time to brood for long, because the music changes and the cue is given; curling her hands around the rope of the swing, she nods once to the stagehand, and is lowered into the spotlight.

\--

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat, tapping his fingers against the small table. It’s dark in the bar, and loud, and the lush, red velvet of the booth keeps sticking to his tweed when he leans back. He turns around to glower at it.

“Relax, would you?”

John starts, glancing over at Clara. She’s in the corner of the booth, sipping a martini, watching him with a mixture of annoyance and bemusement.

“The furniture is attacking me.”

Clara rolls her eyes. “So take off your jacket. It’s warm in here anyway, I don’t understand how you’re still wearing that thing.”

John fixes his bow tie out of habit and runs a hand over the front of his jacket. It is a bit toasty, he’ll admit, but the tweed makes him feel better. Less...naked.

They’re toward the front of the venue, with a full view of the stage, and he hates feeling so exposed. Normally he sits in the back near the bar, unseen and unassuming—not that Clara knows that. As far as she’s aware, he’s never been here before, and he’d like to keep it that way.

When she’d decided to drag him out for a night on the town before the first day of school, he figured she meant dinner and an old movie at the run-down theatre he likes, or possibly a round of mini-golf. Instead, she’d brought him here, to the one bar in all of London he _actually_ frequents—and, well, when he says frequents, he means once in a while. When he can. Never more than twice a month. Except for that one time, during that one show—but it’s not his fault it was spectacular.

Still.

He eyes the patrons, a mix of everyone from drunken men in dirty work boots to businessmen to a gaggle of young women, scantily clad, whom Clara reasoned earlier were probably here as part of a bachelorette party. He hadn’t asked what that meant, deciding it best to look it up later and not incur Clara’s favourite lecture on how he needs to ‘get out more’ and ‘learn about the real world.’

“I’m fine,” he says, taking a sip of his apple juice. He splutters, spitting it back into the glass and shoving it away from him. “What is that?”

Clara purses her lips. “It’s apple vodka.”

“Liquor?” He glares at the offending drink. “You said it was apple juice.”

Clara shrugs. “I lied.”

John grumbles, pulling on his bow tie. “You’re a terrible friend.”

“I’m a wonderful friend. I take you out, I buy you biscuits—”

“You’ve brought me to a—a—” he lowers his voice. “ _strip club_ —and that was only the once! Besides, they were chocolate.” He wrinkles his nose. “I hate chocolate.”

“First of all, it’s not a strip club, it’s a burlesque show. Second of all, you’re not human.” John huffs. “Seriously, who doesn’t like chocolate biscuits?” John opens his mouth to retort. “ _Everyone,_ John. _Everyone_ likes chocolate biscuits.”

“Well, I don’t,” he grumbles. “And I don’t like burlesque, either.” Which is a lie. Completely. “It’s all…naked women.”

Clara grins. “That’s the point.”

He tries not to flap his arms too much. “But they’re on stage! In front of people—in public!”

“So?”

“So, shouldn’t they...you know...put some clothes on?” He’s grateful the lighting hides his blush.

Clara merely snorts. “All right, the chocolate I’ll buy—grudgingly—but you’re a bloke. You can’t tell me you don’t like naked women. Unless you’re gay.” She waves a hand. “But there are naked men, too, so you’ll be fine no matter what.”

John slumps in his seat and resists the urge to fold his arms across his chest. “I hate when you talk in binaries.”

“And I hate it when you sulk. Come on,” she pleads, turning to him and gripping his arm. “It’s your last night before school and then the rest of the year will be all stolen lunches and overbearing parents. Let loose a little. Have a little fun. Lord knows you don’t get out enough to—”

“Doctor!” A waitress stops in front of them, smiling down at John. “I didn’t see you there! Trying a new spot today, eh?”

John waves a hand weakly. “Hello, Nancy.”

“Who’s your friend?” She gives Clara a slow once over and holds out a hand. “Hi. I’m Nancy. Can I get you anything?”

John gulps. “Eh, Clara, Nancy, Nancy, Clara.”

Still shaking the waitresses hand, Clara slaps him in the arm with her other. “You’ve been here before! You lying liar!” She smacks him again, and John flinches away.

“Ow!”

Nancy laughs. “Sorry, John—didn’t mean to blow your cover.” She winks, then spies the drink on the table. “You? Vodka? I thought I’d never see the day.” She puts a hand on a bare hip, and while the Doctor has little trouble looking at her face instead of the bikini top and mini-skirt, Clara is less obtuse. Shameless, even, and John elbows her in the side.

“Quite all right, love, long as she tips well.”

“Oh, I do,” Clara promises.

Nancy grins and squeezes John’s shoulder. “Let me get you a fresh drink—we’ve got some juice in the back, yeah?”

John nods dumbly as she moves away, slumping down even as Clara smacks his arm repeatedly. “You know their names! You come here often enough to know their names!”

“It’s just polite,” he mumbles. “And it’s not _often_ —just...occasionally.”

“ _Names!_ ” Clara reiterates, but instead of being angry like he’d thought, she’s nearly ecstatic. “ _You_ frequent a _strip club!_ ”

“It’s not a strip club! It’s a perfectly respectable show.”

“But they’re _naked,_ ” she teases. “ ‘In front of people, and so public!’ ”

“It’s art!” he protests. “It’s like a play!”

“With _breasts._ ” Clara giggles, rubbing her hands together. “I knew it was a cover. All that protesting and blushing—you’re a bloke who likes breasts,” she sing-songs, just as Nancy returns with their drinks—a tall glass of apple juice with an apple slice in the rim for John, and a refill on Clara’s martini.

“Actually,” Nancy says in a stage whisper, “I think he fancies the lead.”

“Nancy!”

“Oh?” Clara raises an eyebrow, deliberately dragging her finger’s along Nancy’s as she takes her drink.

“Sends flowers and everything. It’s kind of sweet if you ask me.”

“Well, nobody did,” he grumbles, blushing as Nancy leans in and gives him a kiss on the cheek before sauntering away to help other patrons.

“Flowers, eh?”

“Shut up.”

Clara nearly dances in her seat. “Does Johnny has a wittle crush on the stripper?”

“She’s not a stripper,” he snaps, closing his eyes in mortification as he realises he’s played right into her hands.

“I can wait to see her. _All_ of her.”

“You’re horrible. I don’t want to be your friend anymore.”

Clara grins and slings an arm over his shoulder while he pouts. “You love me. I’m a great friend. You’ll never be rid of me.”

“You’re walking home.”

“You’d never let me. A little girl like me all on her own?”

John quietly fumes, but when the lights start to dim and the announcer starts to speak, his agitation fades. He sits up slightly, dropping his hands to the table as he tries not to lean forward while he waits.

He knows the show by heart now, but it doesn’t stop his heart from beating double time when the lights shut off and the spotlight comes on and there she is—wild curls and a low, rich voice that still sounds sweet.

He’s overheard the conversations— “Dude, did you see her tits?” “I’d tap that ass.” “Fuck, bro, I bet she has a tight little—” and rationally knows that most men are there to _look._ That it doesn’t bother them the way it bothers him when they cat-call. He won’t lie—he’s stolen a glance or two when she removes the corset; he’s wondered what it would be like to touch all that skin. It's not what he's here for, not even close, but there's something about her that he can't resist. Even when they were young, he never could—

He quickly catches himself, looking back to her face or closing his eyes to concentrate on her voice.

He does so half-way through the show, tipping his head back against the booth to listen—it’s hardly poetry, but he gets lost in the smooth tones until Clara elbows him in the ribs and shrieks in a whisper, “You’re missing the best part!”

Keeping his eyes firmly shut, John shakes his head. He knows what part this is—he can tell by the timing and the lyrics and the laughter, the uproarious and lascivious cat calls.

“I’d rather not.”

“It’s not real,” Clara returns. “Though I bet he is.” John cracks an eye open to look at her and wishes he hadn’t; she’s ogling the man on stage with a hungry smirk. “ _All_ real.”

“Clara,” he hisses, and she laughs.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous! She’s not _really_ giving him a blowjob.”

“Yes, I know that, thank you.”

“You _are_ jealous! Which one?”

“Sorry?”

“Who are you jealous of?” She picks up her program and flips through it. “Lady M or Jack Hardness?” She giggles. “ _Hardness._ ”

“How old are you?”

“Young enough,” she returns, waggling her eyebrows. “So?”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re totally jealous. Has it been that long?”

John glares, forgetting to keep his eyes closed and when he looks up at the stage, Lady M is on her knees while ‘Jack’ faces the audience, head thrown back as he sings. Lady M’s too busy doing... _other things,_ and he clamps a hand over his eyes.

“Oh, bless.”

“Shut up, Clara.”

Leaning into his side, Clara takes a sip of her martini. “I’m so coming with you from now on. The show is great, but your reactions are comedy gold. Maybe I’ll make you into a character in my next book.”

“You write travel guides, not books.”

“I’m _going_ to write a book. It’ll be a best seller. The awkward principal who falls in love with a dancer. What would sell more, the girl or the bloke? Oh, both. Definitely both.”

“Clara!”

“You’re so easy,” she grins, and John is saved from replying by the end of the act. Half the crowd stands to applause, and Clara jumps to her feet to join them, whistling. John sinks into his seat, and tries not to think about how long the next hour will be.

\--

River sighs, fumbling for her keys with one hand, umbrella tucked into the crook of her elbow as she hoists Rory further up on her hip. He’s dead asleep, mouth open, face pressed into her neck. It started pouring at some point during the show, and she can feel the cold water seeping through her coat.

Exhausted, she finally manages to push open the door and stumble in; the umbrella hits the floor and she nearly trips, and Rory whines at being shaken. She hushes him quietly, soothing a hand over his back as she drops her keys onto the table and pushes the door closed with her foot.

Her flat is small, a drafty one-bedroom on the outskirts of London proper. It isn’t the safest place, but it’s all she could afford, and she’s done her best to make it a home. The bedroom is a mix of her things—makeup, corsets, wigs, skirts, and shoes all tucked away in a tiny dresser—and Rory’s, his clothes in the bottom drawer, toys in a hamper, a Roald Dahl-themed bedspread and pillow cases he’d all but begged her for for Christmas.

Laying him down on the bed, River carefully removes his shoes and clothes, guiding his exhausted limbs into pyjamas and under the covers. He curls immediately around a worn, stuffed rabbit, and River sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, watching him sleep.

She doesn’t remember much of her childhood. Sometimes she gets flashes: red hair, a swing set, a soft hand bandaging a skinned knee, but they’re not real. She knows she had parents, logically knows she must have done, but they never wanted her. Never even tried.

Sometimes she wonders if she made the right choice. If her own child might have been better off with someone else, growing up somewhere else, with two parents and a house and a dog and all the toys in the world. If she should have given him up before she ever laid eyes on him, staring up at her from beneath a blue hospital blanket. If someone who never had parents even knew how to be one at all.

Truthfully, she’s not sure she ever had a choice. She’s loved him from the moment he first kicked her hand, still in the womb; from the moment the doctors told her he was upside down and trying to crawl out feet-first.

Smiling at the thought, she leans down and kisses his head, before forcing herself to her feet. She strips out of her jeans and sweater and climbs into the shower, scrubbing as much of the glitter, sweat, and makeup off her skin as possible. Her nipples are still sore from pulling off the tassels, her knees are bruised and she has a nasty scar on the inside of her thigh from a set malfunction three weeks ago.

The water goes cold far too quickly, and she shivers through the rest of her shower, pawing the conditioner out of her hair before shutting off the water and wrapping herself in a thin towel. She pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a vest, dries her hair as best she can. She has to force herself to take care of it, so in the morning it won’t be completely unmanageable. Normally she wouldn’t bother, but tomorrow is Rory’s first day of Reception.

He’s never been in school before, not even a daycare, and she’s been fretting all summer. When he should have been in Nursery, River was in a travelling show, and not having any family to watch him, he’d travelled with her. He’d loved every moment, and she’d been grateful to keep him with her, but she hopes she hasn’t held him back; that he’ll be all right in the system, that she’s taught him well enough on her own.

Jack says she’s overreacting, as usual, but she can’t help the churning in her stomach when she thinks of leaving him there on his own. He’s been around strangers all his life, but never his age, and always with her by his side, his little hand tucked into hers, and god, she frets. That he’ll make friends. That he’ll like his teacher. That no one will tease or bully or frighten him.

He’s been so excited—nervous, she knows, but excited nonetheless—spending the week prior deliberating his first day outfit. He’d finally settled on his favourite jeans, a green and purple _Hulk_ t-shirt, brown socks, and his favourite pair of shoes: bright pink Mary Janes.

Forcing herself to relax, River tames her hair as best she can before digging into the pocket of her discarded jeans. Smiling, she fingers the card from earlier, allowing herself a moment to daydream before opening a little music box and dropping it in with the rest. She climbs into bed, and the shift makes Rory turn, seeking her out in his sleep. He curls into her, breath light against her neck.

She falls asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat under her palm.


	2. become the cruel and the kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

Rory clings to her hand, his exuberance gone in the face of the towering building and rambunctious children. She walks him through the hall to his classroom, talking to him gently, pointing out artwork on the walls that he’ll get to make, the things he’ll learn, the friend’s he’ll meet. She keeps her voice soft; any higher and she’s afraid it’ll tremor.

A young boy flies past them down the hall into a group of crowded students, and Rory buries his face in her leg. “I don’t want to. Can we go home? I want to go home.”

He sounds near tears, and River’s chest clenches.

Reaching the room, she kneels down in front of him and crooks her fingers under his chin. “You’re going to be _fine_ , sweetheart. You’re going to have so much fun.”

Rory sniffles. “Can you stay with me?”

River shakes her head. “No, I can’t. But you won’t even need me. You’re going to make friends, and learn new things, and have a lovely time. And it’s only a few hours; I’ll be waiting right here as soon as you’re done, okay?”

Biting his lip, Rory scuffs his glittery shoes against the floor. “Promise?”

Hugging him tightly, River presses a kiss to his hair. “I promise. You are _amazing._ Just remember that, okay?”

Rory nods, and when she releases him, he looks backwards over his shoulder into the classroom. Inside is bright and colourful, with posters and artwork and a large chalkboard. It looks homey and inviting, but it isn’t until River spots the class pet in a cage along the wall does she manage to get Rory into the room, pushing him forward gently by the shoulders.

He watches the rabbit with wide eyes, fingers curled over the table ledge where the cage is sat, and sure enough a little girl joins him almost immediately, equally awed by the animal. They don’t talk, but River watches as the girl keeps sneaking glances, and when her gaze lands on his shoes, she smiles, and taps his arm.

“We have matching shoes,” she says, pointing.

Rory looks down, then back up, then at River, who nods encouragingly. He doesn’t say anything, but he nods and smiles, and that seems to be enough for the little girl to decide they’re friends.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, River makes work of a quick goodbye while Rory’s still captivated by the rabbit, leaves him with his _Black Widow_ backpack, and hurries out of the room before she changes her mind about this whole public education thing, moves to a commune and keeps him with her forever and ever.

It’s only a few hours, she tells herself. A few hours, and she’ll have him back again.

Keeping her wits, she makes it out of the building and into her car. It’s like daycare, she thinks, a few hours to herself where she can relax and attend rehearsals without having to worry or keep an eye on him, or pawn him off on poor Donna or another dancer or god forbid, the bartender.

She makes it all the way to the studio, onto the stage, and mid-warm-up before Jack approaches, a gentle hand on her arm.

“Hey,” he says.

River chokes back a sob.

Jack coos, gathering her in his arms as River huffs at her own emotions. “This is ridiculous,” she grumbles, “He’s fine. He’ll be fine.”

“Of course he will. He’ll be brilliant.”

Stepping back, River clears her throat and does her best to look strong.

Grinning, Jack motions to her eyes. “You’ve got a little mascara—”

“Shut up.” River swats him on the arm, earning a loud laugh and a twirl as he moves away from her.

The rest of the morning is a whirlwind of rehearsal, but that doesn't keep her eyes from flickering to her watch every spare second she gets.

Jack teases her mercilessly. "Who've thought you'd become so dependent on a man?"

River tosses a sweaty towel at his head. "He's not a man, he's my son."

Jack clicks his tongue. "The great River Song, brought to tears by the absence of a five year old." River glowers, but Jack slings an arm over her shoulder and kisses her cheek. "I'm proud of you, you know. After everything you've been through—you turned out to be one hell of a mom."

River shrugs, trying not to let the words affect her. "He's all I have. And vice versa."

"Speaking of which..."

"No."

"I know what you're going to say—"

"Jack—"

"Oh, come on," he begs, "one date."

Turning on her heel, River marches off stage toward the dressing rooms. "No."

Undeterred, Jack follows. "I know a great guy—"

"I don't have time for—"

"Sure you do. Rory's in school now. He's gonna make friends, have play dates, after-school activities. The world is your oyster, and you know what they say about mollusks."

"Jack—"

"Nothing says you have to marry the guy. Just blow off a little steam. I _know_ it's been a while." He waggles his eyebrows, hopping up on the table in front of the mirrors.

“You know nothing,” River sniffs, wiping her face with a clean towel.

“I know _you_ , sweetheart. When’s the last time you did something for yourself?”

Smirking, River flashes him the filthiest look she can muster. “I do things for myself all the time.”

Jack snorts. “And much as I’d love to hear about it, in detail, I might add, that’s not what I meant.”

Sighing, River faces him, arms crossed over her chest. “I know what you mean, Jack, and I know you mean well, but—”

“But what?” When she doesn’t continue, Jack grasps her hand gently, tugging her toward him. “Look. I know you’re a fierce, independent woman and all that, and I’m not saying you _need_ a man.”

“What are you saying?”

“That you deserve to be happy.”

River tenses. “I am happy.”

“You deserve to be loved.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I thought this was just about getting me laid?”

“Well, you deserve that, too,” he says, grinning. “Why not both?”

River opens her mouth to protest, but the shrill ring of her mobile cuts her off. Relieved, she scrambles off stage and digs through her purse, pushing back an unruly curl as she brings the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mrs. Song?”

She rolls her eyes. “Miss, actually, but yes.”

The woman on the other end sounds contrite. “Oh, I’m so sorry. This is Martha Jones, I’m the assistant principal at—”

Her heart stops. “Rory?”

“He’s fine,” Martha assures her. “He’s perfectly safe. We just need you to come down and—”

River slings her purse over her arm and grabs her sweatshirt, already fumbling into her shoes. “What happened?”

There’s a pause. “There was a confrontation with another student. I’ve called his parents as well, and they’ll be here shortly. If you could just come down—”

“I’m on my way,” she snaps, not waiting for a reply before tossing her phone into her bag and digging for her keys.

Jack appears behind her, placing a gentle arm on her shoulder. “River?”

“It’s the first bloody day and there’s already—I knew this was a bad idea—I’m going to strangle whatever rotten child—” She’s mumbling, she knows that, and Jack makes her take a few deep breaths before releasing her to her car. She drives faster than she has in years; she’d given up reckless manoeuvres and high speeds when Rory was born, but the adrenaline kicks in, and she’s illegally parked outside the school in half the time it took her this morning.

She doesn’t give a second thought to her outfit—dusty stretch pants and a vest and the remains of stage glitter in random places—and she’s barely through the doors to the principal’s office when Rory launches himself into her arms. River drops to her knees, cuddling him to her chest as he hiccups, tears hot against her neck as he sobs, tiny body shaking.

“It’s okay, my love, I’m here,” she murmurs, “I’m here. Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Rory shakes his head, but doesn’t speak. Hoisting him up, River puts a hand on the back of his head protectively and narrows her gaze at the woman before her.

“I’m so sorry about this, Ms. Song,” she starts, as River’s gaze falls on another boy, kept grudgingly in a chair and kicking the wall repeatedly as he glowers at the floor.

“What happened?”

“Why don’t we sit down and—”

The door behind her bursts open, nearly hitting her in the backside, and a dishevelled man with a stack of books scurries in. “Sorry, Martha, I know I’m late, I had to rescue these from the librarian before she tossed them—as if kids don’t want to learn about quantum physics!” He juggles the books while simultaneously trying to push his round-rimmed glasses up his nose. He looks vaguely familiar, but she can’t place him, and at the moment, doesn’t particularly care.

Martha clears her voice pointedly. “Principal Smith, this is Ms. Song, Rory’s mother.”

He turns, and a book falls, and River feels her skin prickle with anger. For a moment, he simply stares at her, mouth open, then quickly clamps it shut.

“Oh! Hello, yes, of course, I’m John, John Smith—though most people call me the Doctor. Not sure why.” He looks to Martha. “I call me the Doctor, too. Still not sure why.” He frowns, as if on the edge of an epiphany, and something nags at the back of her mind. The way he moves, his tone of voice, his eyes as he stares at her far too intently.

Shoving it aside, River inhales through her nose. “If someone doesn’t tell me what I’m doing here and why my child is in _tears_ in the next thirty seconds I swear to _god—_ ”

“Yes! Yes, of course, sorry, you’re absolutely right. Here, follow me. This is my office.” He moves as if he’s going to gesture, then thinks better of it, and drops the stack of books on a large, cluttered desk. Motioning her in, he shuts the door behind her with a quick word to Martha before hopping up on the corner of the desk.

“You can sit, if you like.”

“I’ll stand.”

He blinks. “Blimey, no pleasantries, then.”

“We’re past pleasantries, _Doctor,_ and my son—”

He sombers instantly. “Of course. I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, leaning forward to tap Rory on the shoulder. “How are you doing, eh?”

Rory burrows his face further into her neck, and John sighs.

“One of our other students—Max, Max Capricorn, his parents should be here shortly—I’m afraid he’s got a bit of a temper on him. The boys were at recess, and unfortunately took to picking on Rory.”

“Why?”

The Doctor gives her a sympathetic look. “His shoes, apparently.”

River stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending, and then remembers—his sparkly pink flats.

Rory leans back in her arms, and for the first time she notices—a shoe clenched in each hand, mangled and broken. The soles have been ripped off, the buckles torn, and one of the bows is missing. She closes her eyes, hugging Rory tighter. She shouldn’t have let him wear them. Should have warned him. Should have bought him new shoes, something less flashy, less—

“It’s _not_ your fault,” the Doctor says, and River blinks in surprise. “From what I can tell, that’s a precious little boy you’ve got there, and the best thing you can do for him to is to let him be himself. Isn’t that right, Rory?”

Without looking up, Rory nods, and John claps his hands together in delight.

“Now, I’m a bit new here, as you might have guessed, and while the last principal was a wonderful bloke—fantastic hair, sharp suit—I find his stance on bullying a bit lacking. The students aren’t used to me yet, but I give you my word, Ms. Song, they will be.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

He smiles. “So glad you asked! In my experience, suspension does nothing—depending on the parents, it can be more a reward than anything else, so I’m not suspending Max.” River opens her mouth to protest, but John holds up a finger. “He’ll be attending one-on-one sessions with our school counsellor, Mrs. Tyler, during recess and after school, every day for two weeks. Most often, when kids lash out, it’s because there’s something else going on, most often at home. Additionally, he’ll be required to apologise, both in writing and in person.” At her sceptical look, John leans forward and meets her gaze. “Nothing like this will ever happen again. I promise. Do you believe me?”

River bites her lip. She wants to, oh, she wants to. There’s something about his voice, the look in his eyes, the sincerity and strength and quiet ferocity. She wants to say yes; irrationally, wants to hug this man.

Instead, she clears her throat. “I’ll hold you to it,” she says, and for some reason she doesn’t understand, his eyes brighten and he jerks back, as if she’s said exactly the right thing.

“Close enough!” he declares, hopping down off the desk and rounding it to dig around in a drawer. “Aha!” He pulls out a yo-yo and a lollipop and offers both to Rory with a demonstration. When the yo-yo makes noise, Rory finally turns his neck, intrigued, and his face lights up when John hands him the gift.

“Now,” he says, “that’s my very special yo-yo. Don’t tell anyone, but it was given to me by the Archduke of the Planet Havershire in 1822, so you have to promise me you’ll take extra special care of it.”

"There isn't a planet Havershire."

The Doctor taps the side of his nose. “Exactly.”

Rory giggles, holding the yo-yo to his chest. River wipes his cheeks with her thumb and kisses the crown of his head. The Doctor apologises again, guiding her out of the room. Max’s parents are waiting—the mother, sitting next to him stoically, the father in the corner on his phone, and despite everything, her heart goes out to the boy, just a little.

Rory taps her shoulder and she sets him down, chest tightening as he walks over to Max, his socks peeking out beneath his jeans, and hands him the lollipop.

Max scowls. “I don’t take candy from crybabies,” he sneers.

River opens her mouth to intervene, but John appears at her side, putting a stilling hand on her shoulder.

Rory offers the lollipop again. “Why not? It’s still candy. Here.”

Max hesitates, but eventually snatches the candy, and Rory makes a hasty retreat back to his mother.

Smiling, River grips his hand and ruffles his hair. Turning to the principal, she takes a deep breath. “I hope never to see you again.”

John laughs, adjusting the purple bow tie at the base of his neck. “Likewise, River Song.”

\--

She buys him ice cream and takes him back to the studio and lets the ladies fawn over him. Donna in particular is relentless, gathering him into her arms and threatening bodily harm to anyone who comes within an inch of her boy. Jack drags River to the bar and pours her a shot ‘on the house,’ and she’s never been quite so grateful for her misfit family.

Their next show isn’t until Thursday, and they collectively take the day off—their routine is sound, and Jack can tell by the way River’s shoulders keep tensing and her eyes unfocus that she wouldn’t be much use, anyway.

“The first day,” she seethes, gulping down a long drink. “The first bloody day and he’s in _tears—_ ”

Jack settles a warm hand on her shoulder. “Well, to be fair, he _is_ a bit of a crier.”

River glowers.

“I’m just saying! He’s the sensitive type—remember when we found that bird in the alley and he made us try to save it?”

“Oh, god. I felt like the worst mother in the world.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Yes, it’s entirely your fault it died; nothing to do with the cat.”

River drops her face into her arms, half-sprawled across the bar. “I thought he’d never stop crying. He was heartbroken.”

“He got over it,” Jack says gently. “He buried it and said his goodbyes, and moved on.” River makes a strangled noise in her throat, and Jack moves behind her, rubbing her shoulders. “He’s gonna be _fine,_ sweetheart. Donna’s probably plying him with enough sugar that by tomorrow he won’t even remember his name.”

River snorts. “Oh, that’s encouraging.” Then she moans. “God, that feels good.”

“I know a really great guy who just happens to be a—”

“No.”

Jack hums. “Suit yourself. Your very tense, very not-laid, self.”

River starts to retort when Rory comes barreling through the bar, half-tripping over the silver boa around his neck. “Mummy! Mummy, Auntie Donna said I could keep it! Can I keep it, please?” He bounds up to her, slipping around in his socks as he dances, waving the feathers in her face.

River turns to Donna, lingering behind them with a bemused look on her face. “Are you sure? It’s company property, I—”

“Please, possession’s what, 9/10ths anyway? ‘Sides, it looks better on him than it ever did on this lug.” She jabs a thumb in Jack’s direction.

“Please, Mummy? I promise to take care of it and pick up the feathers when they fall out.”

Burying a smile at his reasoning, River casts one last glance at Donna before nodding. “Yes, you can keep it. Just be car—”

Rory launches himself into her arms, teetering the chair a bit as he babbles excitedly about how it will match his silver flats and he’s not going to wear it to school but only because the other kids would be jealous but maybe around Christmas or his birthday and are there any holidays for sparkles because there should be, he decides, and he can’t wait to tell Myra—“She had the same shoes as me before they got broked.”—because Myra loves sparkly things too and “Maybe she could come over sometime and I can show her your costumes, Mummy?”

Jack gives her a look as if to say ‘I told you so’ and River nods, giving Rory one last squeeze before he wriggles out of her lap. “We’ll see, darling.”

Rory grins, well aware that ‘we’ll see’ generally means ‘yes’ and twirls away, colliding with a barstool. He yelps, then giggles and twirls with his new accessory, and River watches him fondly, with a sad smile.

“He has no idea,” she murmurs, and Jack hugs her, one arm slung over her shoulder.

“He’s gonna be fine, love,” he promises. “He’s got us.”

\--

John closes the door to his office and sags against the wood, one hand instinctively fixing his bow tie as he lets out a deep breath before shaking himself. He’s being ridiculous. He’s dealt with parents all his career—angry parents, grateful parents, gorgeous, model parents—and none have rattled him.

But then, none have also been _her._

Deep down, he thinks he's known from the moment he saw her. Not necessarily that she was the object of the case he’s working, though he's fairly well convinced now, but that it was _her_ , his _her_. The girl he's been searching for for years. The girl he never forgot.

Pushing off the door, John rounds the chair to his desk and sits down, stacking the toppled books he’d rescued from the library before pulling out his notebook, blue and worn. He keeps it in his jacket at all times, its contents sensitive, and opens to a page in the middle, with a newspaper clipping. It’s an old article, one interviewing ‘Lady M’ a few years ago about the entertainment business. Behind it is a print off from the website, her photo, and there’s no mistaking—Lady M is River Song. Instead of being elated at the lead, his stomach churns. Approaching her was always going to be difficult, but throwing a child into the mix...John shakes his head and scribbles a few notes on an empty page before returning the book to its proper place and jotting down notes in Max and Rory’s files.

Max’s parents hadn’t been quite as understanding as Rory’s mum, shouting at the boy and dragging him off the moment they left his office. He’d tried to talk them down, but he knows this isn’t the first time Max has been in the principal’s office, nor will it be the last, and his parents had been fed up, talking about pulling him out, about sending him to camp, and John watched the boy go with an ache in his chest, feeling almost worse for him than he did for Rory. And there’s nothing he can do. He knows that. Once the kids leave the school, it’s out of his hands, but sometimes he wishes he could just tuck them away somewhere safe, somewhere they’d be cared for and loved their whole lives, with people like River to care for them.

He stops the thought as soon as it blooms. He has no idea what kind of parent she is, or if there’s a father in the picture. There’s none on paper, at least in the school records, but that doesn’t mean anything. She could have a boyfriend, a live-in partner, a—

Muttering to himself, John shakes his head. He doesn’t know her, not anymore. That’s the problem. And he can’t ever get to know her, because it’s not his place. Not his job. Any attraction or curiosity he has about her as a person, aside from her lineage, is fruitless.

Clara—and any decent shrink—would say he’s hiding, protecting himself by idolising and romanticising a woman from a distance to keep from getting hurt. He’d agree with that, if he ever allowed himself to think about it. But he doesn’t. He certainly doesn't think about what his clients would say if they knew he'd developed a—albeit harmless—infatuation with the woman he suspects to be their daughter.

The first time he'd sent flowers, he meant it as a lead, a way to potentially get closer to her if need be. But he'd seen her take them from Nancy, saw the smile that bloomed across her face and the way she tilted her head back and laughed at the card—he'd just jotted down the first thing that had come to mind, which happened to be the estimation that at any given point in time, at least .7% of the world's population is drunk.

He hadn't exactly meant it to be funny, but she'd laughed, a rich sound that warmed his skin and took his breath, and since he's wanted to hear it again. So if sending flowers gets him closer to his mark, and simultaneously makes her smile, it can only be a win/win, right?

With a groan, John drops his head to his desk, and upsets the pile of books.


	3. become the right and the wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

True to his word, he keeps an eye on Rory—partly because he cares for all his students, and partly because he’s sure—if he's right, he _knows_ —River Song could tear him apart, bury the pieces, and no one would ever know what happened.

And, well. If he happens to see something special in the little boy, he tries not to let it interfere. He loves all his kids and does his best not to pick favourites. It’s a bit difficult, though, as Rory has decided that, due to the yo-yo/lollipop exchange, they are now good friends, and insists on saying hello to him in the halls, hanging out with him during recess, and waving to him from the backseat of River’s car as he sees the students home.

As polite and friendly as the little boy is, however, he seems to have more trouble than most making friends his own age. He’s perfectly comfortable with the teachers, the administration, even the janitorial workers and kitchen staff. But he sits on his own in the cafeteria, more often than not with his nose in a book, little legs kicking aimlessly beneath the table as he munches a packed lunch.

It’s only been a few weeks, however, and John’s sure he’ll come ‘round—he’s probably just a bit slower to make friends than other kids. It’s not uncommon, and he isn’t worried, watching from his office window as the kids run around at recess, and Rory sits on a swing by himself. He seems perfectly happy, gazing up at the sky, grinning to himself. There’s nothing wrong with being a loaner, as John well knows—he’s just keeping an eye on him, just in case.

The only problem with that, of course, is that the more he watches Rory, the more Rory’s _mum_ seems to worm her way into his thoughts. Bright eyes, unmanageable hair, a ferocity and protectiveness cooperating with a gentle hand to make an irresistible combination. He can see reflections of her in Rory, and they remind him so much of the girl he remembers.

In the course of his work, he’s located almost twenty children, all grown up. Over half were in prison or dead and two wanted nothing to do with the family he’d tried to reacquaint them with. He doesn’t blame them, of course, but it’s been difficult, to come so close and see the happy ending wither. Part of him thinks he deserves it. That this is his punishment.

He failed her once. He won't do it again.

She's a light in the darkness. His chance at redemption. From what he can tell, she’s got a decent job, a bright kid, and friends. It’s more than most, and he clings to the hope that maybe just this once, he can right a wrong.

But while he’s sure River Song is Lady M, he’s less sure she’s who he’s looking for.

He’s seen her often since that meeting in his office, dropping off and picking Rory up, always with a smile and a kiss. She’s a fretter, he can tell, by the way she always tries to tame Rory’s hair or fix his collar or do any little last minute run-throughs, checking his backpack or his lunch to make sure he has everything. And when he’s finished, she’s always there early, waiting in the same place, and whether the routine is for her or Rory, he doesn’t know. But it’s endearing all the same, and when the last class is over, John stands outside near the school bus, making sure each student goes with who they’re supposed to.

He gets caught up talking to a parent about the Christmas party—it’s never too early to talk about Christmas—and it’s just after three thirty when the last car drives away. He turns to head back inside and spots a straggler, waiting dutifully inside the doorway, close to the entrance. With a frown, he realises it’s Rory.

“Hello,” he says, giving a wave. Rory grins and waves back, but doesn’t move from his assigned spot, and John’s chest tightens. “Your mum not here yet?”

Rory shakes his head. “She told me to wait here if she was late ever, ‘cause sometimes they have to sing a lot and she can’t leave in the middle of a song. But Uncle Jack is picking me up today. We're going to get pizza."

John nods, remembering Martha's memo from the morning about Rory's ride, and River’s extreme requirements for anyone picking up her son besides herself. At first they’d assumed she was yet another ‘helicopter mother’, but he knows better, now—if River is who he thinks she is, then she has good reason.

Pushing it back to contemplate later, John says, "She’s very smart, your mum. Do you think it’d be okay if I wait with you?”

Rory giggles. “You’re the principal! You can do what you want; that’s what being the principal means.”

“Is it? I had no idea! All this time, I would have been hanging out with you instead of paperwork!”

“Paperwork isn’t fun at all—Mrs. Stevens has us do lots of paperwork with numbers and it’s super hard, but mum says if I do it all I can read after dinner.”

“You like to read?”

Rory nods, eyes wide as he squirms out of his backpack, digging through it. It’s the most organised child’s backpack he’s ever seen, and he suppresses a grin as Rory pulls out a worn paperback.

“This is my favourite book right now. I read a lot so sometimes it changes and my all over favourite is _James and the Giant Peach_ ‘cause it’s funny, and Miss Spider is kinda like my mum and she does the best Miss Spider voice, but right now my favourite is _Stuart Little_ because it’s about a mouse and I like mice, even though they make mummy scream when they come in the house. Do you like mice Mr. Principal Smith?”

“I do like mice. Spiders, too, but not the big hairy ones.”

“Those are my _favourite_. Besides Miss Spider and Charlotte. I want one but mummy thinks they’re scary.” He giggles as if he’s just told a secret. “She used to hit them with a shoe, but now she takes them outside ‘cause she knows I don’t like it when they die.”

“That’s good, you know. You should have respect for all living things, even the littlest ones.”

“That’s what I think, plus they all look like Charlotte and I’d be sad if Charlotte died. I haven’t finished the book yet though so I hope she doesn’t—I read that one while mummy’s working.”

John takes the battered copy of _Stuart Little_ and thumbs through it with a frown. “You read these on your own?”

Rory shrugs. “Most of the time. Sometimes there are words I don’t get, so I circle them and then Mummy helps me and sometimes I remember it but sometimes she has to tell me again.”

John blinks, noting the circled words every few pages. “That’s...that’s very, very impressive, Rory.” He turns to him with a smile. “Do you think you could read a bit for me while we wait for your ride?”

Grinning, Rory nods eagerly. “I’ll start at the beginning so you won’t get confused.” Taking the book back, he sits on the ground, tiny legs folded, and looks up at John. “You have to sit down for story time. Mr. Keller says so.”

John bites his lip. “Oh! Of course! Silly me.” He drops to the ground, mindless of the cold tile, and checks his watch out of the corner of his eye. Fifteen minutes late. Not wanting to worry Rory, he gives him his full attention as he reads the first chapter. He’s not perfect, and some of the words have more creative pronunciations, but he is reading it, slow and steady, and John's chest tightens. It could be a coincidence. It could be nothing.

But something tells him it isn't, and he makes a mental note to set up a meeting with River as soon as possible.

Glancing at his watch again, John frowns. Twenty-five minutes.

John waits until he gets to the end of a passage, making a big show that causes Rory to blush. “Now, you can keep reading, but why don’t we go back to my office and see if we can figure out where your ride is, eh?”

Rory hesitates. “Mummy told me to stay here.”

“I know, and I’m very glad you did. But, we need to call her and see when Uncle Jack will be coming, because this floor is getting a bit chilly. We’ll ask your mum too if you can wait in the office, and if she says no we’ll come right back, how’s that?”

Thinking it over, Rory eventually nods, stands, and returns the book carefully to his backpack. “Okay. But we have to come right back.”

John gives a sloppy salute, and guides Rory down the hall to the offices. Martha frowns when she sees them, standing up and rounding the desk to place a hand on Rory’s shoulder.

“What are you still doing here? It’s nearly four, shouldn’t you be at home young man?”

Rory laughs, his eyes crinkling.

“Rory’s ride’s not here yet, so he’s been reading to me from his current favourite but not favourite-favourite book.” He looks to Rory for approval, and the boy nods. “Why don’t you show Miss Martha your amazing skills while I phone your mum?”

Nodding, Rory plops down on the floor by her desk, and John slips into his office, dropping the smile for the first time. Flipping through his list of contact information, he spots her number and dials, listening to it ring.

And ring, and ring.

Hanging up, he tries the emergency number. On the third ring, a male voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Hello! Is this…” He scans the emergency contact. “Jack Harkness?”

“At your service,” he says, a bit salaciously, and John recognises the voice. He pushes the thought away and clears his throat.

“Hello, hi, this is the Doc—eh, Principal Smith, from Lowerwood Primary, I’m calling because you’re listed as the emergency contact for—”

“Oh, _fuck_ , Rory!” John blinks. “Is he okay? Shit, she’s gonna kill me. I was supposed to pick him up today, she had a last minute interview— _fuck._ He’s okay, right?”

“He’s perfectly fine. He’s in the main office, with myself and my assistant. We need written permission, however, for anyone who isn’t a parent or guardian—”

“Yeah, I’ve got it, she gave it to me—I am so dead. I can be there in ten, is that—”

“That’s fine, Mr. Hard—Harkness! Mr. Harkness.” John clears his throat. “We’ll be waiting.”

He hangs up after bidding goodbye, face flushed, and barely has time to calm himself when Martha opens the door, sticks her head in and says, “River Song called back.”

\--

Somehow, River gets there before Jack. He hears the tyres skid through the open window, and Rory looks up at the sound, closing his book. “That’s Mummy.”

Martha buries a laugh behind her hand, and John walks Rory down the hall. The doors are locked, and River is standing impatiently at the entrance, worrying her lower lip. Rory dashes outside the moment he sees her, jumping into her arms and babbling away, and it’s only because he’s looking that John catches the flash of terror and relief before she smiles. She looks up when he exits, setting Rory down and putting a quieting hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you for watching him. I’m so sorry about this, I—”

“River!”

John looks up to see a man running toward them, an overly-dramatic coat billowing behind him.

“Uncle Jack!” Rory beams, hugging the man as soon as he’s close enough.

“River, I am so sorry, I—”

“Don’t even try. We'll discuss this later,” she hisses, thumping him in the chest with Rory’s backpack.

John shuffles nervously. “I don’t believe we’ve met?” he tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

River glowers, but the man jumps at the distraction. “Jack, Jack Harkness. I’m River’s very, very apologetic emergency contact.”

“ _Ex_ -emergency contact,” she says, and Jack bows his head like a scolded puppy.

Taking pity on the man, John interjects, “There’s nothing to worry about, Ms. Song. Rory was perfectly safe here.” If he adds more emphasis than usual, he doesn’t think she notices. “In fact, it’s actually a bit of a good thing your…brother was late.”

River opens her mouth to correct him, but Rory pipes up,

“He’s not really my uncle, ‘cause he and Mummy aren’t related but he’s like my uncle so I call him that, just like I call Auntie Donna that even though she isn’t really my auntie.”

River smiles patiently and smoothes a hand through Rory’s hair. “You were saying?”

“Yes! Of course, sorry—just that, I had a chance to sit with Rory a bit, and he’s a phenomenal reader, aren’t you?”

Rory shrugs. “I just like it lots.”

To River, he adds, “He’s reading at least three years above his average reading level. Those books— _Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, James and the Giant Peach_ —they’re for eight to ten year olds, normally.”

River stares at him, mouth slightly open. “Really?”

“I’d like to set up a meeting with you, and some testing for him, to see if we can’t get him in a more advanced reading and writing class.”

Where he thought she'd blanche, River nods. “I—um—sure, I mean, of course, that’s fine, I, um. When would you…?”

“I’ll have my assistant call you tomorrow to set something up?”

“Yes, that’d be good. Thank you. I—” She lets out a short laugh. “I had no idea. He just...reads what he likes.” She frowns. “I don’t, um. I don’t have any friends with kids, so I didn’t realise—I should have paid more attention.”

 _You didn’t have a childhood,_ John thinks, but instead shakes his head. “It’s completely understandable. Children advance in their own time, so even if you had been aware, it wouldn’t have mattered—you’re still giving him the material he needs to challenge himself.”

River relaxes at that, and John tries not to puff up, quietly proud that he’d helped.

“All right, then,” she says. “We’ll talk.” She shoots him a smiles before taking Rory’s hand. “Ready to go, genius?”

“Can we have pizza tonight?” he asks as they head toward the car, and he listens to the banter, smirking when Jack instantly offers to pay, to pick it up, to clean up afterwards, edging himself out of the doghouse.

Irrationally, John wishes he could join them.

\--

River slams a hand against the bar, causing Jack to jump. "That's not the point," she snaps. "I asked you to look after him and you—what if he hadn't stayed put? What if he'd wandered off? What if he'd decided to walk home?"

"River—"

"Anything could have happened. If they find him—"

"They won’t, and he's fine, River. The school took care of him, and wouldn't have let him leave with a stranger."

"That's not—"

"It _is_ the point. I'm sorry I was late. I was wrong, and I'll do anything to make it up to you. But he's okay. He's fine. _Breathe,_ sweetheart."

River doesn't understand, until he puts his hands on her shoulders and she realises she's nearly hyperventilating, fear coursing through her, throat tight and eyes wet. It's been a long time, so long sometimes she can almost forget. But the habits are ingrained—multiple locks on the door, canvassing every new room for an escape route. She'd even vetted the entire faculty of Lowerwood Primary, using the skills she'd learned as a child and teen to dig into their pasts. They all came out clean, but still, she worries, she _panics,_ and the constant fear that maybe they aren't safe, maybe _Rory_ isn't safe, bubbles to the surface.

"Jack."

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He enfolds her in a hug, and she goes willingly, but doesn't return the gesture, arms limp at her sides as she focuses on her breathing. "He's safe," Jack whispers. "You're both safe."

Nodding, River steps back and takes a deep breath. "You're still in trouble."

Jack smiles tightly. "Wouldn't have it any other way."


	4. become the card in the chest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

As the term drags on, River has to admit that while she misses her little boy desperately during the day, it’s almost nice to have free time again. Grocery shopping, rehearsals, and other errands are simpler, and things that used to take hours she cuts the time in half, no longer having to wait patiently for Rory to examine every plant on walks to the store or fill the trolly with candy (that she discretely removes). It’s quieter, and part of her appreciates the time to herself.

On the other hand, she’s rather at a loss. Rehearsals and shows still take up the majority of her time, but aside from that, she doesn’t quite remember what to do with herself without Rory.

Jack tries to cajole her back onto the dating scene, but that doesn’t feel right, either. Most men aren’t interested in single mothers, let alone single-mother-burlesque-dancers-with-commitment-issues, and she’s not willing to bring a stranger into Rory’s life only to have him leave when he loses interest. The show glamour tends to attract a certain type, and when they discover that ‘River Song’ isn’t the same person as ‘Lady M’—well, she’s gone through enough disappointment.

Shoving the thought aside, she flips through the magazine with her interview—nothing all that interesting, as usual. They’ve cut and sliced her statements to make the job sound glamourous and sexy, ignoring everything she’s said about hard work, days at a time on the road in cramped conditions when the show tours, long hours, and shitty pay. It’s nothing she hasn’t read before, but she still finds herself disappointed. At least the pay was decent.

After Rory was born, she was lucky enough to find a troupe that stays put, only occasionally taking the show to neighbouring countries, and never across the pond. They’ve got a decent arrangement with the club owner, and the troupe manager allows her and Jack enough creative license to develop their own routines and sketches. But it isn’t like that for everyone, wasn’t like that for her before, and sometimes she wishes someone would just _hear_ her instead of nodding and staring at her breasts.

Though she has to admit, sometimes it comes in handy. Her landlord, for one, enjoys cornering her when the rent is overdue, and she isn’t above popping a button here or placing a hand there to distract him. It won’t work forever, and she’s going to have to find a way to skate by until her next paycheque.

Tossing the magazine onto the table, River moves into the kitchen and makes several small, pathetic-looking sandwiches for Rory for dinner. She has a meeting with the principal in an hour, and then it’ll be time for Rory to come home. Then it’s straight to the club, and she’ll get a few precious hours while she’s getting ready to spend with her boy before she hands him off to Donna. Lather, rinse, repeat.

She loves her job, she does, but sometimes she wishes things were different. Just a little better. She isn’t looking for a mansion, but a nice little house, maybe. A porch. A television set that doesn’t stretch the picture every ten minutes. She wishes she had a family—grandparents for Rory, better role models. She slides the sandwiches into bags.

A decent meal for her kid.

Ignoring the rumbling in her own stomach, she gathers her things and heads for the school.

\--

John checks his reflection in the framed copy of his diploma, slicking back his hair with his hand. He berates himself even as he does it, but it doesn’t seem to stop him from checking his teeth and his breath and straightening the papers on his desk.

River is right on time, as always, and he ushers her into his office with a smile. She sits this time, gaze flickering over the brightly coloured drawings and silly grammar posters on the walls.

“A lot homier than I’m used to,” she remarks.

“Spend a lot of time in the principal’s office, then?”

River smirks. “I seem to be spending a lot of time in the principal’s office now.”

“Well, rest assured you aren’t in trouble.”

“Pity,” she returns, and John covers the choking sound with a cough.

“Right then, Rory! Brilliant name, Rory.”

Her smile dims. “He’s named for my father.”

John pretends not to notice, but oh, it makes sense. A masochistic sort of sense, but trust Melody— _River_ —to do it anyway. Swallowing the knowledge, he says, hating himself even as the words leave his lips, “He must be very proud, your father. He’s a brilliant grandson.”

“So, you said he’s reading at a higher level.”

John nods, and tells her about the test they’d like him to take, just to be sure. Again, she doesn't blink, and he wonders if she remembers. If she knows that part, or if they'd lied about that, too. “Ideally, we’d put him in an advanced reading group with other children his age, but he’s a bit too advanced for the group we have now, so we’d like to place him in the grade seven class.”

“That won’t be too much for him?”

“Academically, no. He should fit right in. I am a little worried about him socially, however.”

River nods, fingers tangled together in her lap. “He doesn’t make friends easily.”

“He does brilliantly with adults, but his teachers are a bit concerned how quiet he is in groups. He keeps mostly to himself at recess as well. You mentioned you don’t have many friends with children—has he spent any time outside of class with kids his own age?”

River bristles. “I don’t quite see what that has to do with—”

“I’m not judging, Ms. Song,” he says gently, holding up a hand to placate her. “Everyone has different circumstances; I’m just trying to ascertain whether you think Rory would be comfortable in an environment with more mature kids.”

She nods, relaxing slightly. “I think he’d be all right. I’ll talk to him about it, though. I know he loves his teacher, Ms. Keller, so he may not want to change.”

“That’s understandable. Have you considered private tutoring?”

River blinks, surprised. “You think he needs it?”

“Not necessarily, it’s just something to think about. He seems to be doing just fine on his own. We do have some after school activities that might interest him, though, if you wanted to socialise him outside of classes?”

“I—” River hesitates, then nods. “Yes, that sounds good. Do you have a programme?”

John pulls out a list for her to take home, and River agrees to discuss options with Rory. He likes that about her, he decides—that she doesn’t sign him up or pull him out of class without his opinion. The meeting is over far too quickly for his taste, and no matter how he tries to drag it out, River is out of her seat the moment everything’s been covered. She claims work, but he doesn’t miss how uncomfortable she is in his office, how on guard.

He can’t help himself, as she’s leaving. Holding the door for her, he says quietly, “A lot’s changed since we were kids. This—” He gestures to his office. “It’s a safe place, for everyone.”

River eyes him for a long moment, confused, sceptical, and if he’s not wrong, a bit touched. She nods once in acknowledgement, but the walls don’t lower until Rory comes in, backpack slung over one shoulder and his shoes untied.

He quickly shoves the thought aside. He doesn't have time to get invested. He made a promise—to himself, to the families, to the children. To the Ponds. He won't let them down. Not again.

It’s less than three hours later, while he’s researching another case, that Clara bounds into his flat, hands behind her back and a wide grin on her face.

“I bought you a present.”

“Ooh! I love presents! Is it a rubber duck?”

Clara frowns. “Why on earth would I buy you a rubber duck?”

“Because they’re cool?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. It’s not a duck.” She thrusts a copy of _Bare Is Better_ in his face. “Page 62.”

John slaps a hand over his eyes. “It’s porn!”

“It’s not porn. It’s a men’s interest magazine. Page 62!”

Grumbling, he slumps into the couch and dutifully turns the page. Clara perches on the arm of the sofa excitedly, delighting in what must a be his highly comical expression.

“A bunch of blokes at the coffee shop were talking about it this morning so I had a look—it’s her! It is her, isn’t it? Your girl?”

“She’s not my girl,” he says, even as his eyes drag over the full page photograph of Lady M, sprawled out on a leather sofa in heels, stockings, and a corset, her hair wild about her face and a sinful smirk at the corners of her lips.

“It’s actually a decent interview. She seems really smart, and totally filthy.”

John nods, but he can’t tear his eyes away from her face. It’s River all right, even beneath the photoshopping and the make-up, and this close up, this studious, he can see little bits of her parents in her features—her father’s strong nose, her mother’s fair skin. She’s beautiful, above and beyond any woman he’s ever seen or met, and he wants to get to know her, wants to talk to her, wants—irrationally—to hold her hand and run his fingers through her hair, just to see if it’s as soft as it looks. As soft as he remembers.

And he could. He knows, he could put away the articles and the research and just pretend. He could call up her parents and say there’s no hope, and they’d believe him. He could let Melody Pond rest, and keep River Song all to himself.

Clara sits down next to him on the sofa, a hand on his arm. “You okay? It’s just an article. I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m fine.” He forces a smile and jumps to his feet, channelling everything into enthusiasm. “Are you hungry? I’m hungry. Let’s make fish fingers. Ooh! And custard. I love custard.”

Clara snorts. “Fine. You can make that. I’ll make a souffle.”

“You mean you’ll destroy my kitchen again.”

She shrugs, and presses a smacking kiss to his cheek. “Same thing.”

\--

“Delivery for Lady M.”

River huffs at Donna’s tone, snatching the flowers from her. Donna smirks, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the doorway to the dressing room.

“Well? What’s it say this time?”

Glaring, River carefully places the flowers in the vase on her section of the vanity and plucks out the card. _“Did you know, facetious, arsenious, and abstemious contain all the vowels in the correct order? Try saying that three times fast. ...not on stage. That might look silly. x’”_

Donna snorts. “You certainly know how to pick ‘em.”

“I didn’t pick him,” she retorts. “I don’t even know who he is.”

“Have you asked?” When River looks up with a frown, Donna shrugs. “I’m sure the waitresses would tell you if you tipped well enough.”

“No, thank you. The last thing I need is a bloke who hides behind cards and flowers and won’t even show his face.” She replaces the card in the bouquet and sets about applying her makeup. “Besides, he probably assumes I’ll fall into bed with him the instant we meet and that’d be that. I’ll take the flowers instead.”

“He’s sent you, what, fifteen bouquets now? With those ridiculous cards, I doubt it’s a ploy for sex; and even if it is, at least he’s creative. Maybe it transfers over into the bedroom.”

River groans. “Not you, too. I get enough prodding from Jack.”

“Seems to me the problem is you don’t get enough _prodding._ ”

Fluffing her hair, River tosses a glare over her shoulder. “Just because you landed the perfect man doesn’t mean he’s out there for all of us.”

Donna smiles. “He is perfect, isn’t he? Gorgeous, and can’t speak a word.”

“Only you would find that attractive.”

“I talk, he listens. Every woman finds that attractive.”

“Boring,” she returns. “It’s no fun if they agree with you about everything.”

Donna smirks. “You’d be surprised,” she says, and River laughs.

“All right,” she concedes. “There are _some_ instances where that would be agreeable.”

Pushing off the door, Donna helps her into her corset, re-glueing a few rhinestones and lacing up the back. The rest of the girls are already out, doing their first number, and they can hear the music faintly from the stage. Rory’s asleep on the sofa in the corner, as usual, and Jack will be looking for her in a moment. But for now it’s peaceful, a pre-show calm that settles over her.

“You’re going to find someone, you know,” Donna says softly, taking the powder from her and brushing it over her cheeks. “Whether you believe it or not, he is out there, somewhere.”

River shakes her head, but Donna interrupts.

“I know you, River. You talk a good game, but you’re terrified of letting anyone in. He could be right next door, and you’d never know, because you won’t take a chance. He could be your flower boy for all you know.”

“It’s too soon.”

Donna places a hand on her arm. “It’s been five years, love. He’s not coming back.”

“It’s not about that. Rory’s—I use the term ‘father’ loosely—was never the problem; it was a one-night stand.”

“What, then? What are you waiting for?”

River swallows, glancing over at Rory, fast asleep with his stuffed bunny tucked under his arm, his shoes dangling half off his feet.

“I don’t know,” she says, but doesn't entirely believe it herself.

Sometimes, just before she falls asleep, she remembers something. Someone. A small hand in hers. A crooked smile. A bright laugh. But it never materialises, she can never see completely.

Oblivious, Donna nods, squeezing her arm before leaving her to finish up. The rest of the night is a blur of show tunes and glitter and bright lights, and by the time it’s over, she’s exhausted. She eats dinner at three am, beans and toast, standing up in her kitchen and watching infomercials on their tiny television. At least tomorrow’s Saturday, and she can sleep in as long as Rory allows. She falls into bed at half four, Donna’s words echoing in her head. Before she can stop herself, or change her mind, she sends a text to Jack.

_Okay. Set me up._

She falls asleep before she receives his answer, but with a smile on her face, and Rory tucked under her arm.

\--

He tells himself repeatedly he’s not going to the show. Now that he knows it’s her, the mother of one of his students, and his case file, it would be inappropriate. But he can’t call them yet, so he goes for a walk instead.

And somehow ends up buying flowers.

And a card.

And when he takes them to Nancy, she already has a drink for him. He can’t let her trouble go to waste, and he _is_ rather parched. And, well, then it’s just rude to leave during the first number, and worse to leave during her’s, and before he knows it he’s sat through the entire show, glass still half full of cranberry juice, and he chokes when she turns to the audience just before ‘going down’ on Jack Hardness, licks her lips and says, “You know, I’ve never been abstemious in my whole long life. Why start now?”

The audience laughs and John turns beet red, his ears on fire, and for the rest of the show can’t look at anything except the very edge of the stage, where the lights are fixed. He does complex maths problems in his head and contemplates physics and the nature of the universe and when the show is over, stumbles outside into the fresh air.

It means nothing, he’s sure, just a bit of fun, possibly a bit of mocking—he’s used to that—but she’d scanned the crowd as she’d said it, as if looking for a reaction, and he prays she hadn’t seen him, cowering in the back.

He honestly doesn't know what he's expecting. It's been years since he's dated, longer that he's actually been interested. Every so often, Clara gets fed up and sends him out with one if her friends, or tries to cajole him into online dating, but no one holds his interest, and even if they did, he can't imagine anyone sticking around after they get to know him.

What started as a curiosity, a case, a mild infatuation, had become a vested interest. He knows it sounds creepy, which is why he never mentions it, but for some reason Lady M had caught his attention and kept it. Something about her voice, her smirk, her eyes—there's a depth there, and a sadness that he doesn't think anyone else notices, and the only reason he thinks he does is because it's the same look he sees every time he looks in a mirror.

She's beautiful, of course, but there's something more. And now that he knows the life she leads—the life she’s lead—it makes him respect her all the more, and understand her. He knows, now, why this gorgeous, obviously compassionate woman, seems so alone. Almost as alone as he is.

He needs to talk to her. To tell her. To tell her family.

Instead, he's tried to invent ways to see her, for his own sake—offered to help her go over programmes for after school, guiltily using Rory as a bridge. He's terribly fond of the boy—he reminds him of himself: curious, clever, and kind. He was a lot noisier than Rory when he was that age, but the similarities make his heart beat double time, and he imagines himself sometimes, taking the boy to the park for a bit of footie, tucking him into bed with a story and a kiss.

He's getting old. So old, he thinks, that these are his dreams now, insinuating himself into someone else's family.

Slouching through the front door, he makes himself a cuppa before heading into the spare room, filled with boxes and papers and articles. He needs to remind himself what he’s doing, and why he’s doing it. He sits on the floor, sheds his jacket and pulls the nearest stack of newspapers in front of him.

_Orphaned kids used in crime ring._

PI known as "Doctor" reunites families from FL orphanage case.

The most recent, sent to him from the States by a worried family, taunts him worse than others:

_Leader of crime ring, Kovarian, escapes police custody; still at large._


	5. become the weary and the wild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

She has to hand it to Jack, her date is gorgeous.

All muscle, tanned to perfection, strong jaw, and a voice like silk. Unfortunately, everything that comes out of his mouth is reprehensibly dull. She knows she’s just supposed to have a good time, blow off a little steam, “get a little laid,” as Jack had said. To his credit, her date—Andy, she thinks he said—has great taste, and doesn’t spare an expensive, even for a one-shot deal. He’d picked her up from the studio in a sleek corvette, brought her flowers, and made a reservation at a posh, romantic restaurant.

If only he’d keep his mouth shut, River figures it’d be perfect.

Then again, River figures, draining the last of her wine, there are ways of accomplishing that.

“...and I mean, isn’t that the point of a 401k? Besides, the investment isn’t meant to curry favour with the—”

River leans over the table, well aware of the cleavage on display at the gesture. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

Andy blinks. “You haven’t finished eating.”

She smirks. “I’ll get it to go.”

He looks puzzled for a moment, and River stills. She’s going to _kill_ Jack if he set her up with a relationship-type. She’s about to take it back when Andy smiles, a smooth, easily practised gesture, and lays down his fork.

“You know,” he says, “I have a lovely bottle of Courvoisier in my cellar. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in sharing it with me?”

River arches an eyebrow. “Pay the cheque and we’ll see.”

Andy signals for a waiter faster than she’s ever seen, and she suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. This isn’t about romance or finesse, and she almost appreciates the dropped pretence.

Still. She can’t deny she longs a bit for something more lasting. Not with Andy, of course, but in general. Someone she can trust. Someone she can cuddle with and watch crap telly and take long drives. Someone who loves her, as well as her son, and won’t try to change either of them. It’s a high bar, and one she hasn’t met anyone who comes remotely close to vaulting.

Shaking the thoughts from her head, she leans into Andy when he places a hand at the base of her spine, guiding her out of the restaurant. They don’t speak much, and she’s grateful. They’re almost to his car when she realises she forgot the food.

“So?” Andy says, “We won’t be needing it.”

She ignores the condescension in his tone. “I’ll be right back.”

Andy starts to protest, then thinks better of it. River turns, and runs square into a man with his head buried in book. She yelps, and the book goes flying, as does the man’s cuppa—it hits Andy squarely in the chest, all over his pristine suit, and the man fumbles to catch things and steady her at the same time.

“Oh, blimey, hi, sorry, are you all—River?”

She blinks, clutching his book to her chest. “Principal Smith?”

He opens his mouth, a grin already in place, when Andy chucks the half-empty cup back at him. “Watch where you’re going, asshole.”

John fumbles for the cup, succeeding only in spilling most of it down his chest and yelping at the hot liquid. River bites down an amused smile and reaches out, taking the cup from him and handing him back his book.

“Carefully, you’ll put someone’s eye out.”

“ _Limbs,_ ” he sighs wantonly. “Never got the hang of them.”

Andy huffs. “Yeah, well, one of them will be paying for my dry cleaning.”

John blushes, but River looks up at him with a glare. “As if you need it.”

“No, no,” John starts, patting his chest for his wallet. “I can—”

River shakes her head. “He just dropped three hundred pounds on a two person dinner. I think he can afford the bill just fine.”

“That’s not the point,” Andy says, at the same time John looks up,

“You’re on a date?”

“Problem?” she asks, as Andy says,

“Yeah, she’s my date, so if you could hurry it up—” He drops a hand to the base of her spine again, and River stiffens.

The tips of John’s ears go pink. “No, course not, not at all, just—where’s the little one?”

“Little one?” Andy echoes.

Her voice lowers dangerously. “Rory’s with his sitter. Why?”

“No, no, just wondering! Sorry, not my place, here, I’ll—aha!” He pulls a card from his waistcoat pocket in triumph, then frowns. “No, wait, never mind, that’s for _Richard’s._ ”

“The candy shoppe?”

He grins. “Best toffee in London. Possibly the known universe.”

“Quite a distinction, that.”

“Well, I’m researching. Bit of trouble getting past the Milky Way, you know how it is.”

River laughs. It’s not intentional, or a response she thinks she ought to have, but it is, and she does, and John looks inordinately pleased with himself as she stifles the sound behind her hand. Leaning forward, far into her personal space, he taps her nose with a finger, and despite herself, she warms at the gesture.

Until Andy grabs John’s wrist and pushes him backwards. “Keep your hands off my woman, you—”

“Your _woman_?”

River looks at John in surprise—he’d said the same thing, spluttered it out with a laugh, as if the idea to him was as hilarious to him as it was insulting to her. Despite Andy’s towering figure, John smirks and fixes his bow tie.

“Where’d you find this Neanderthal, then?”

“John—”

“You know what, keep your fucking money,” Andy snaps, grabbing River by the wrist. “We’re leaving.”

River wrenches her hand free. “ _We_ aren’t doing anything, not with that attitude.”

Andy’s nostrils flair, and then he calms, smoothing his features as he holds out a hand. “Sorry. Can we go now?”

River hesitates, and makes the mistake of looking back over at John. He’s staring at his shoes, looking for all the world like a lost little boy, but when he looks up, he looks resigned. There’s no judgement in his gaze, which she’s surprised about, no pity—it’s sympathetic, almost, and a bit angry when his gaze flits over to Andy.

“I need to grab the leftovers,” she says. “I’ll be right back, and—”

“What do you need it for? I’ve got food at my house if you’re still hungry.”

River snorts. “I’m not having sex with you in exchange for food.”

“Isn’t that what you just did?”

John opens his mouth to protest, but River beats him to it.

“You know what? Never mind. Thank you for _dinner,_ I’ll see myself home.”

Andy’s jaw clenches. “You said—”

“I know what I said,” she snaps. “And now I’m saying no. So be a gentlemen, get in your car, and leave it alone.”

Andy shakes his head with a scoff. “Whatever,” is all he can come up with, and River can’t resist waggling her fingers as he climbs in his car and speeds away. When he’s out of range, her shoulders drop, and she looks over at John, who appears to be tamping down a grin.

River snarls, pushing past him, and John scrambles to follow her. “I know it’s none of my business, but—you were going to—to—with _him_? But he’s all—all— _sinewy_!”

River snorts. “They’re called muscles. Not that you’d know.”

“Oi! I have plenty of muscles. Just because I don’t put them on display—did you know, the frigatebird, the male, has a throat sac that inflates into a giant red, heart-shaped balloon? They use it, and a sort of waggly dance, as a mating ritual to attract females.”

River freezes, hand on the door to the restaurant, and rounds on him with wide eyes. She thinks of cards, and flowers, and little anecdotes. “What did you say?”

John stutters. “I said, um. The frigatebird—to attract a mate, it—”

“No, I—how do you—” She shakes her head. “Never mind. Not possible.”

“What’s not possible?” he asks, following her into the restaurant. The waiter recognises her immediately, and hands her the leftovers in a fancy box before ushering them back outside.

River changes the subject. “If you wanted a date, all you had to do is ask.”

“A what? With who?” River arches an eyebrow, and John windmills back from her. “What? With _you_? No, of course not! Don’t be ridiculous.”

Despite herself, River flinches. She _feels_ ridiculous—dressed up and nowhere to go, blood still hot, leftovers that she’ll have to stretch into another two meals until her paycheck comes in. Shame burns at her cheeks, as she thinks of Rory, his tiny pack lunches, his taped and glued Mary Jane’s.

“Right,” she says flatly, “Ridiculous.”

“River—”

“I’m going home. It was—” She lets out a hollow laugh. “It was a pain in the ass running into you.”

“River, wait—”

She turns, tugging her coat tighter around her as she heads down the street at a clipped pace. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take him long on those spindly legs to catch up, and he scurries in front of her to still her motion.

“River, wait, please. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

She tries to push past him, but he blocks her. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. That came out entirely wrong, and I—I’m—I’m a proper doctor in seven subjects and I’ve travelled the world and had supper with kings and I haven’t got the first clue how to—how to—”

“ _What._ ”

“Ask someone out,” he manages. “A woman. How to ask a woman—” He takes a deep breath.

River glares. “Well. Word of advice. Don’t start with ‘No, of course not, don’t be ridiculous.’”

John winces, and River takes the opportunity to keep walking. She isn’t surprised when he follows, but this time he falls into step with her, one hand wrapped around his book, the other shoved into his pocket. She manages the silence for two blocks before she grits,

“What are you doing?”

“Walking you home.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Safety in numbers?” He looks so hopeful, and River hates how much it gets to her.

“Fine. Just don’t talk.”

He tugs the hand out of his pocket to give a sloppy salute.

She makes it another two blocks before breaking her own rule.

“How’s he doing?” she asks quietly. “Rory.”

John smiles. “He’s doing wonderful. Really. Bit shy, bit slow at math, but we’re working on it. Nothing to be concerned about. And his reading scores are off the charts—the advanced class is perfect for him. Which I’m sure you know, from the parent/teacher conference last week.”

“What can I say? I’m a hoverer.”

John scuffs a heel against the pavement. “That first day, in my office. Why did you accept Max’s punishment so easily? Most parents would have demanded I suspend him.”

River shrugs. “You made a compelling argument.”

He snorts. “No, I didn’t. Counselling? Most parents baulk.”

“It seemed reasonable to me.”

John smiles. “I think that makes you rather special, River Song.”

“Not hardly. I just—” She stops, hesitates, then admits. “I just understand both sides of the coin.”

John nods. “I figured as much,” he murmurs, and River looks over at him with a curious frown. “Takes one to know one.”

River sighs. “Yeah.”

They walk in silence for a bit, save the occasional poorly-whistled tune John attempts. They’re nearly to the club when he perks up, dashing over to the window of a pastry shop and peering in excitedly. “Ooh, jammy dodgers! Fresh ones!” He looks at the sign. “They’re open all night. Fancy a biscuit?”

“I—”

“My treat,” he says, “since I crashed your, um...thing.”

River narrows her eyes. “I can pay for my own pastry.”

“Never said you couldn’t. However, what kind of friend would I be if ruined your evening and then failed to properly apologise with sugar?”

River hesitates. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

John bites his lip. “I’d like to be.”

She draws it out a moment longer, just to see him squirm. “All right,” she says at last. “You can buy me a biscuit.”


	6. become the word and the breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

They wind up talking for hours.

Clara was right—she's intelligent, witty, absolutely filthy, and delightful. She laughs at his rubbish jokes and flirts shamelessly now that they're on equal ground, and even though he's sure his cheeks are scarlet, he loves every bit of it.

She doesn’t divulge much in the way of personal information, but he can see the scars plain as his own, the figurative ones, anyway. Her dress is modest, save for the neckline, and he concentrates harder than usual on keeping his eyes to her face.

The other kids, he knows, have scars—tally marks carved into their arms, for every mission they failed.

Watching her now as she takes a sip of tea and smirks at a pun, he feels sick imagining her skin marred like that, and almost hopes he's wrong. He'll have to start over if he is. From scratch. He'll have to go back to the parents and tell them the last eight months have been pointless, and it’s back to the drawing board. He hates himself a little, for almost preferring that.

"You’re drifting again."

Her voice snaps him out of his thoughts, and he flushes. "Sorry. Big brain, lots going on."

"Does that translate to other areas as well?"

He frowns. "Well, I suppose my hands are a bit bigger than usual, but I'm not sure—"

She laughs. "Never mind, sweetie."

He smiles. "I like that. Sweetie."

To his surprise, she's the one to flush. "Sorry. I didn't realise I—"

"No, no, I like it."

"You're my son's principal; it's hardly appropriate."

John wings an eyebrow. "Something tells me you don’t care much for propriety."

"Oh?"

She sounds annoyed, and he quickly back tracks stumbling over his words until he sees her smirk, half hidden behind her mug.

"You did that on purpose."

"You’re fun to rile."

"I hate to say you're rather good at it, Ms. Song."

"River."

His heart soars, even as the guilt slams in his chest. "River."

She smiles at him over the rim of her cup, a soft, genuine smile, and for a brief moment, she looks like Amy Pond.

The thought is a sobering one.

She's the reason he started all this in the first place. The mother figure next door when his was absent. He remembers afternoons spent in her kitchen, helping her bake biscuits. She always had a place for him at the table, even after. Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can see her face, the haunted look in her eyes.

It's the same look in River's eyes, but there are other aspects, too. Amy's ferocity and strength, Rory's quiet, unwavering support. He wonders if he'd see those things in River if he weren't looking for them—as it is, they're plain as day. She has her father's compassion, her mother's fire. And it breaks his heart that she doesn't know. That she was taken from them.

And yet, as he sits across from her in a quiet, late-night cafe, he can't help but think that if they had raised her, she wouldn't be the same woman she is now, and worse, he wouldn't know her.

But it isn't his job to know her, and it isn't fair—to any of them. Taking a deep breath, he says, "I have to tell you something."

River arches an eyebrow, and he feels worse for the lack of suspicion on her face. Like she trusts him already.

"I, um. I've seen you...before you came to the school. I didn't—I wasn't trying to—I didn't make the connection, before, but it makes sense now, and my friend gave me this magazine—not, not that I read those kinds of—or that there's anything _wrong_ with—"

River smirks. "You've been to _Idris._ "

His ears go pink. "Well, yes, but I—"

She waves a hand. "It doesn't bother me. A lot of people have been to the club." She frowns. "Does it bother you? What I do?"

"What? No, course not! I just—I mean, I didn't want you to think that I—and the truth is—"

River laughs. "Oh, your face. It's really all right." She leans across the table and touches his hand, and every ounce of determination to tell the truth crumbles. Her skin is cool, soft, and he swallows tightly. Oblivious, River pulls away and curls her fingers around her mug. "Though, I appreciate your not making a big deal of it. The bloke at the grocers still can't look me in the eye."

He chuckles, and River stares at him thoughtfully.

"What?"

"I have to say, you don't seem like the type to enjoy burlesque."

"Oh?" he parrots back, and she rolls her eyes.

"I don't know. I just can't picture you ogling the half naked women without blushing. Or the half naked men, for that matter."

He straightens his bow tie out of habit. "I don't ogle. It's a genuine art form—the costumes, the lights, the song and dance—it takes practice and dedication, no different from any other show. I suppose, yes, there happens to be more skin and it can be a bit..."

"Kinky?"

"I was going to say _salacious_...than other forms, but, it doesn't mean you all don't work just as hard, or that you shouldn't be appreciated just the same."

River stares at him, expression blank, and John fiddles with his cup, nearly spilling it all over the table. Only her quick reflexes catch it in time, and when he meets her gaze, her eyes are soft, and her hand lingers over his.

"Thank you," she says. "I think that's the first respectful thing any man's ever said to me about my work."

He nods, flustered but pleased. “Have you always wanted to do burlesque?”

River shrugs. “It pays the bills. Most of the time. And I enjoy it.”

John arches an eyebrow.

“All right,” she huffs, “I enjoy it a lot. It wasn’t anything I planned on, but...it’s the best of all the worlds, I think.” She takes a sip of tea. “Acting, dancing, singing—and who doesn’t love getting their kit off in front of a hundred strangers?”

She smirks, and John flushes. “It’s smart, though,” he adds. “The parodies—the show you did about the election was brilliant.”

“You saw that?”

Embarrassed, but delighting in the way her eyes brighten, he admits, “Twice.”

She beams. “Donna’ll be glad to hear it. We write as much of our own material as possible—”

“You wrote it?”

“Some of it. Donna handles most of the music and writing; Jack and I do the choreography. But we work together.”

“You make a good team.”

She smiles.

“What would you do, then? If you could do anything?”

River considers, and John resists the urge to lean forward across the table, waiting for her answer.

“I don’t know,” she says after a moment. “A stint on the West End. Isn’t that every performer’s dream?”

“I didn’t ask about every performer. I asked about _you._ ”

River cradles her mug closer to her chest. “I think...if I could do anything...I’d like to teach. Not bachelorette parties or any of that new age, pole dancing as exercise nonsense.” She scowls and waves a hand in front of her face. “But real theatre. Open a school, something for kids who can’t afford after school programs or…”

She lifts a shoulder and stares down into her cup, and he knows she’s thinking of Rory. She’d called back a few days after their meeting, and while he was a perfect candidate for the upper level reading class, she’d declined on the programmes, and now he knows why.

Sensing her unease, John reaches a hand across the table and, awkwardly, pats her wrist. “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” he says softly, a bright, honest smile curving his lips. “You’d be a wonderful teacher.”

She snorts. “I highly doubt it. Definitely don’t have the rearing for that.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

_Let me help you,_ he thinks, but shoves the words back down his throat, and instead rubs her skin gently with his thumb before pulling away.

Startled, and a bit flushed, River clears her throat and looks away, and it's only a few moments before she glances at her watch.

"I should go."

"Right, 'course. It's rather late."

"It's four in the morning."

"Early, then?"

She stands, and he follows, holding the door open for her as they exit. He hails her a cab, even though she protests her apartment is walking distance, and pays the driver in advance.

"Just, to be safe," he says.

River smiles. "Thank you, John. It certainly wasn't the evening I expected, but. It was nice."

He doffs an imaginary cap. "Goodnight, River Song."

"Goodnight. Sweetie."

She adds it as an afterthought, and John beams, standing on the street corner until the cab is out of sight.

He is so screwed.

\--

Jack will not stop grinning at her. The entire rehearsal, he beams, and makes every lewd pun that comes to mind, and she doesn't realise why until she glances in the mirror and realises she's smiling, a small, quiet upturn of her lips. She tries to get rid of it, but it stays, even when he hassles her, and she knows he thinks her night with Andy was "successful." For some reason, she's inclined to keep it that way.

She tries not to reflect too much on her evening, but it's always there in the back of her mind, John's clumsy smile and ridiculous bow tie, the way he peered at her through his fringe. It was like he knew her, understood her, despite that they'd only talked properly twice and then only about Rory. And yet, the way he'd looked at her, treated her—carefully, with respect and quiet reverence, like she was something to be cherished instead of hollered at. She hasn't met anyone who treated her so well, even if it was just over biscuits.

Donna corners her as they're changing back into street clothes, a smirk on her face. "Despite what Jack thinks, that is not the expression of a good one night stand."

River feigns innocence. "Isn't it?"

"That," Donna stresses, "is the look of budding romance. Was Andy really that impressive?" She sounds skeptical, and River doesn't blame her. Huffing at her non-response, Donna sits on the stool next to her. "Jack's friends—while gorgeous—tend to be good for one thing and unless you've been swapped for a dumb duplicate, you know that."

"I do."

"So," she presses, "Who is it?" River starts to protest, and Donna levels her with a finger. "I know that look, River Song, don't even think of lying."

Sighing—but still smiling—she admits, "We ran into Rory's Principal on the way out of the restaurant. Long story short, Andy went home alone, and John bought me a drink." She pauses. "Actually be bought me a biscuit, but I think it was the same idea."

"A biscuit."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You're telling me _that_ face is about biscuits with Rory's principal?” She gives a wistful sigh. “You used to be such a good liar."

"I'm not lying! He's...sweet."

"Since when do you do sweet?"

"He's not bad looking, either. A bit gangly, to be honest, but. _Huge_ hands."

"Well, that's something,” she grumbles. “I assume it matched the drapes, then?"

"We didn't sleep together. Good lord, Donna—he's my son's principal."

"So?"

" _So,_ isn't that a bit..."

"What?"

"Unethical?"

Donna snorts. "Since when do you care about ethics?"

River arches an eyebrow. "Since my son was involved?"

"All right, point taken. But look at you! You're smitten!"

"I am not," River says, turning away to re-apply a glossy lipstick. It’s absolutely _not_ in case she runs into John while picking Rory up. Not at all.

As if reading her thoughts, Donna pries, "When are you seeing him again?"

"I'm not. We didn't make arrangements.” She keeps the disappointment resolutely out of her voice. “I don't even have his number, outside the school. He called me a cab and I went home."

"He has your number," Donna says, sounding utterly convinced.

River frowns. "What?"

"He has your number. In the directory."

"Yes, I suppose, but I doubt he’d—"

"No, I mean. _He has your number._ "

When she stares at her blankly, Donna lets out an exasperated huff and points to River’s cell phone, lit up and flashing on the vanity, “Lowerwood Primary Office.”

"Oh."

"Well, bloody answer it!"

River starts, snatching the phone. "Hello?"

"Oh! Hi, hello. Is this Ms—River?"

She starts to smile, then immediately realises there’s no reason to assume it’s a social call. "Yes,” she says, “Is Rory—"

"He's fine,” John says quickly. “Still in class. I uh—oh, probably shouldn't have called on the school line, eh?"

Relaxing, River rolls her eyes. "Probably not."

"Right. Well, Um. I was just wondering—if you were um free at all this week? I wanted to talk to you about—well, I wanted to talk to you, if that's—" There’s a crash and a yelp. “Sorry. Bloody coat rack.”

River holds in a laugh. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

There’s a pause. "Wait, is that a yes, or a—a— _yes?_ "

" _Yes._ "

Another pause. Donna harumphs next to her, but River smirks, waiting, until John manages, "Right! Excellent, then. Would tomorrow, um…?"

"I've a show tomorrow, but…” She glances at Donna. “Sunday?" Donna nods, and River mouths ‘thank you.’

"Sunday's good. I know a quiet little place that's good for um. Talking. Also cheeseballs."

This time, she does chuckle. "All right."

"Do you have a car?” Pause. “Of course you do, never mind. No, you know what, I'll pick you up. Around 7? If that's—"

"Make it 7:30."

"7:30."

River bites her lip on a smile. "Okay."

"Okay. See you then, River Song."

"Looking forward to it, Doctor."

The last thing she hears is a cough and another crash before hanging up, and Donna raises her eyebrows.

"Doctor, eh? Kinky."

"Oh, shut up."

\--

John drags a hand through his hair anxiously and considers the flowers on the passenger’s seat. Too much? Not enough? Presumptuous?—but no, it’s not a date, it’s a meeting. They’re going to talk. He’s going to tell her.

He’d set it late enough that he’d have time to get everything together. A restaurant will hopefully lull her into a sense of security, and, he hopes (though doesn’t bank on) stop her from making a commotion if all goes badly. Which it will. Might. Probably.

Tugging on his bow tie—his purple one, for luck—he stares out the window and takes a deep breath. Right. He can do this. He _has_ to do this.

So why did he buy _flowers?_

Tossing them in the backseat, John scrubs his hands over his face and pats his cheeks.

At least picking her up means she can’t leave.

With a sigh, John forces himself out of the car and up the steps of the apartment. It’s rather run down, iron bars on the windows, and he wrings his hands together nervously after he knocks.

And then every thought vanishes when she opens the door, brandishing a stick of eyeliner, hair done up, her face flushed. She’s got makeup on only one eye, and gapes at him, startled.

“Shit,” she says, just as Rory pops up behind her in purple pyjamas.

“Bad word, Mummy,” he scolds, but grinning. “Ten p in the jar!”

River recovers and opens the door, ushering John inside and leading him down the short hallway. Unlike the exterior, the inside of River’s home is bright and welcoming. Pictures of Rory and Rory’s drawings adorn the walls, and the furniture is an odd mix of new and vintage. She also seems to have a small collection of pottery, what look to be antiques.

“Sorry, I thought you were Donna. She was supposed to be here ten minutes ago, I—Rory, don’t jump on the sofa, please—I was just getting ready, I—”

She turns when they reach the kitchen, and he’d been following so close they collide, and he starts, and he instinctively grabs her hips to keep them both steady. Her dress is soft, the same one she’d worn the other night, but she’s tied a scarf around her waist and paired it with different jewelry.

“It was either this or a showgirl costume. I thought that might be a bit presumptuous.”

John starts, and even though she’s teasing, blushes furiously at being caught staring. “Sorry, sorry! I, um. I—”

River laughs. “It’s fine. Just, give me a minute? Rory, do you want to offer Principal Smith something to drink?”

Rory shouts excitedly, bouncing in from the living room. River ruffles his hair as she passes, leaving the loo door open as she finishes getting ready. Rory grabs John’s hand and tugs him over to the table, motioning for him to sit. “You’re a guest,” Rory says. “Guests have to sit down while host get drinks.”

John smiles. “That’s very nice of you, Rory.”

“What do you want? We have lots of juice, and water, and Mummy likes tea but I think it tastes bad.”

“I happen to agree with your Mum on this one—tea is the best.”

Rory wrinkles his nose, but at the same time looks upset. “I can’t make tea yet because the water’s too hot. Is juice okay? I can pour that myself.”

“I also happen to _love_ juice, so I think we’re safe.”

Rory beams, skipping over to the fridge and pulling out a carton of orange juice. He struggles a bit, but manages to set it and a plastic cup on the floor, pour without spilling, and return the carton to its place. He sets the cup—decorated with dinosaurs—in front of John with a flourish. “This is my favourite cup. No one except Mummy can use this cup besides me, but you’re the Principal, and you’re really nice so you can use it, too.”

John’s chest tightens and he gives Rory a high five, even though he wants to hug the little boy and never let go. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “It’s a great honour to drink from the dinosaur cup.”

Rory grins, pleased with himself, and when the doorbell rings he dashes down the hall. “Auntie Donna’s here!”

River starts after him. “Rory, don’t open that door—”

“Hi, Auntie Donna!”

Donna’s voice filters through the apartment, and John can hear River’s voice, low and serious. “Rory, what have I told you about opening the door?”

“But I knew it was Auntie Donna.”

“You don’t always know, it could have been anyone, and unless I’m with you I don’t want you to unlock it, okay?”

“But—”

“No buts, Rory,” she says sternly, but her voice softens almost instantly. “You wait for me to open the door. Got it?”

He can hear Rory sniffle, and a moment later River comes back into the kitchen, carrying him. His face is buried in her neck, and River explains, “He’s tired. It’s been a long day, hasn’t it, love?”

Rory nods, but at the sight of John, standing awkwardly in their kitchen with his dinosaur cup in hand, Rory wiggles down and gives John a hug. “Thanks for letting me make you juice Mr. Principal Smith Doctor.”

John laughs and pats his head. “Anytime. This is the best juice _ever._ ”

Rory grins, and proceeds to introduce him to Donna, who eyes him rather critically, making him squirm.

“Mr. Principal Smith Doctor is taking Mummy on a date,” he says. “That means they’re going to a nice restaurant and if they have a good time they’ll go to more nice restaurants. Have you ever been on a date Auntie Donna?”

John panics, but Donna doesn’t seem to notice, chuckling as she starts making dinner while River gathers her things.

Date.

_Date._

He remembers Clara saying something about dates, but he didn’t realise—night, restaurant, picking her up—oh, he’s an _idiot._

As if sensing his discomfort, Donna turns to him and smiles, but it’s stiff and—if he’s not wrong—a bit threatening.

“It’s been a long time since your mum’s been on a proper date, hasn’t it, Rory?”

Rory shrugs, distracted by picking out bits of shredded cheese and popping them in his mouth.

“I really hope she has a _wonderful time_ tonight,” she says, stressing her words. “It would be a shame if anything _went wrong_ and there were _ramifications._ ”

John gulps, and Rory looks up, mouth-full of cheese. “What’s a ramifashun?”

“It means _bad things_ happen to people who do _bad things_ and don’t treat others as they deserve.” She says it lightly, but glowers at John, and he nods hastily, message received.

River returns, finally, coat and shoes on and a small purse on her arm. She looks stunning, and he watches as she crouches down to Rory’s level and gives him a hug. “You be good for Auntie Donna, and do what she says.”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“I’ll be home after you’re in bed, but I’ll come in and say goodnight.”

“Okay. I hope you have fun at the nice restaurant.”

River laughs. “Thank you, love.”

She stands, ruffling Rory’s hair before kissing Donna on the cheek. “Thank you. I’ll see you in a few hours, yeah?”

“Or not,” Donna smirks, and River whacks her with the back of her hand.

“Good _night,_ Donna.”

“Have fun, kids. Don’t do anything _stupid._ ” She glares at John while she says it, and he gives her a thumbs up, backing out of the kitchen. He trips over a rubbish bin, quickly righting it before hurrying down the hall and outside.

River laughs, locking up behind her. “Don’t mind Donna. She’s always like that.”

“Homicidal?”

“Protective.”

“Ah.”

River snorts, and hastily opens the side door for her before she can do so herself, earning a surprised, grateful smile. Rounding the boot to climb in after her, he starts the car, hesitates, then swings around and grabs the flowers from their discarded place in the backseat.

“Um. Here. These are for you.” He thrusts them in front of her without looking, chastising himself. _Not a date._

But she _thinks_ it’s a date, and he wants it to be a date, and, well. He did buy them, so not giving them to her they’d just go to waste.

River makes a delighted little sound, pressing her face into the bouquet. “They’re lovely,” she says, smiling at him. “Thank you.”

John stutters, mumbles out a you’re welcome and starts driving. He has to force himself to keep his eyes on the road and not on her. River handles the small talk, where they’re going, how his day was. He doesn’t mention he’s spent the last five hours trying to gather his courage to tell her who he really is—who _she_ really is. They’ll have time for that later. After she’s had a glass of wine.

When they pull up to the tiny restaurant, John bustles out and opens his door for her—it’s only polite—and resists the urge to place a hand at the base of her spine as he guides her inside. It’s quiet, brightly lit, a homey sort of place that he hopes will calm her—and his nerves. She seems to like it fine, smiling when he pulls out her chair.

They order and eat and talk—about politics and art and education, and he finds that she’s far more well-read than he’d assumed. He tells her the places he’s travelled, and she listens with awe and a bit of envy, telling him in return about the books she’s read of those places, and her interest in archeology.

John snorts and teases her relentlessly, but she holds her ground and gives as good as she gets, and two hours fly by before he’s even noticed.

The restaurant isn’t crowded, so they’re allowed to sit and drink more wine and he orders dessert. River insists she doesn’t want anything, but steals a few bites of his cheesecake anyway, as he figured she would. He doesn’t even _like_ cheesecake, but he’d noticed her eyeing it on the menu.

They take a walk afterward along the Thames, John’s hands shoved in his pockets. River carries a small leftover box—biscuits for Rory—and he does his best not to lean into her too much, but fails.

They’re quiet a while, listening to the lapping water and the conversations of other night-goers, and he tries, but he can’t seem to find the words he’s looking for. Stopping somewhere along the way, River leans against the short wall and peers down at the water.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she asks suddenly, and John feels the colour drain from his face.

“What?”

“The flowers. You’re the one who’s been sending me flowers at the club.”

She turns to look at him, her expression blank. John swallows. “I, um—I didn’t mean to be—I know it’s a bit, um...unorthodox? But I just—”

“It’s all right.”

“How did you know?”

“It’s the same bouquet, from the same shop. And the other night—you said something, like you do on the cards.”

_Idiot._ “Oh.”

This time when she turns, she’s smiling. “You could have just said something, you know. Introduced yourself. All those flowers must have cost a fortune.”

“Would you have listened? Or come out with me at all if I’d just been another bloke bothering you after your show?”

“No,” she answers honestly. “I’d probably have assumed you were a stalker.”

John flinches. Her words hit a bit too close to home, but she has no way of knowing that.

“I kept them, you know.”

He frowns. “The flowers?”

“The cards,” she admits. “I have them all in a box. Is that silly?”

Shaking his head, he touches her arm briefly. “I’m glad.” He takes a deep breath. “River, I—”

“Was this really a date?”

He blinks. “Did you want it to be?”

She hesitates. He watches as she fiddles with the buttons on her coat sleeves. “Either way it’s fine, I just sort of assumed—but you seemed so surprised, in my flat. Like it hadn’t even occurred to you. Which is fine, of course, though it’s a bit rude letting me natter on for an hour when in reality—”

“It was a date.”

John curses himself, even as he delights in the way she freezes, staring at him with her lips parted. “What?”

He scratches the back of his head. “It was a—I mean, I’m not very good at the whole...date... _thing_ —but I— _wanted to_...ask you. Out, I mean. It’s just—it’s complicated, and I—”

“Because of your job?”

“Well—”

“Because of _my_ job.” She purses her lips and looks away, staring out over the river. “I suppose it’s not in your best interests to be seen with someone in my line of work. Especially a parent.” She chews her lip for a moment, and he finds it hopelessly endearing. “We should probably not do this, then. If it’s going to cause problems for you, there’s no reason you should take the risk. You’re too good at what you do to put your career on the line.”

John blinks, a crooked smile on his face. “River Song, are you trying to protect me?” She throws him a scowl and he laughs, nudging her shoulder with his. “My job—” He corrects himself. “Being principal isn’t the problem. We’re obviously not _encouraged_ to...date our kids’ parents, but, it’s not against the rules.” He lowers his voice. “And I’m not sure I’d care if it were.”

River sighs. “You should care,” she answers quietly. “You should...run away.” When she looks up, her eyes are bright, full of the horrible sadness he’d seen before. “Run now, John. Before you get hurt.”

He takes her hand on instinct. “Why would I get hurt, River?”

“Because that’s what happens. If I don’t hurt you, something else will.”

Moving into her personal space, he turns her toward him, her body pressed in close to his. “Why would you hurt me?” he asks softly.

She tries to smile, but it’s pained. “Because I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“You’re wrong, you know. Look at Rory. Look at your friends. I obviously don’t know them very well, but they see especially loyal, and you don’t get that by hurting people. If you do that, eventually, they leave.”

“Not fast enough,” she answers, and he knows she’s speaking from experience.

Hesitating, he looks down at their hands, clasped between them. Her skin is cool where his is warm, smooth where his is rough. Small and delicate, but so strong, he knows. _He knows,_ and he shouldn’t lie anymore, but he wants her to trust him. He doesn’t want her to stop looking at him the way she is now, like he means something. Like he matters.

In a split-second decision he knows he’ll pay for dearly, John looks her in the eye and says, “I’m not going to push you. If you never want to see me again, I’ll understand. But I think—I think there’s something—and I like you, River Song. Lady M.” He smiles crookedly. “I like both of you, all of you. And...I think you like me, too.”

River huffs, but she nods. “I do. But—”

“Ah ah. No buts, remember?”

She laughs softly. “You’re impossible.”

Raising their hands, he places a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Nothing’s impossible, just improbable.”

“Shut up,” she mutters, blushing faintly.

John grins. “Not a chance.”


	7. become the blossom and the wilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

She isn’t entirely sure how it happens, but somehow she ends up dating John Smith. Well. She’d like to use the word dating—god, would she ever—but in actuality, in the seven dates they’ve been on, everything from traditional candle-lit dinners to a midnight milkshake run at a drive-thru, Rory asleep in the backseat, they’ve done little more than kiss.

And it’s driving her mad.

She’s not ashamed to admit it’s the longest she’s dated someone without adding sex to the equation, and it’s for no lack of wanting that she hasn’t crossed that barrier with John. But he seems so hesitant, so awkward, always leaving her with a chaste kiss and a hungry look in his eyes that he seems reluctant to act on.

She’s thrown out every signal she can think of, aside from showing up at his doorstep in a trenchcoat and nothing else—those she’s considered it. She’s fairly certain he’d have a heart attack if she did, and much as she might enjoy his comical expression, she’d rather not kill him—she _likes_ having him around. Likes behind able to talk to him after a long day, or cook dinner with him on weekends. Thus far she’s been reluctant to involve Rory, always leaving him with Jack or Donna; she doesn’t want him to get used to John’s presence. Her own heart she’ll risk, but Rory’s is far too precious, and he’s already been abandoned once. She won’t make the same mistake.

John seems to understand. He’s affectionate with her son, but never crosses the line, and respects her boundaries where he’s concerned. And damn him, it just makes her like him more.

As frustrated as she is with the lack of any physical developments in their relationship, she figures she owes him at least the same respect. Most men aren’t patient enough to wait for the third date, let alone three months, and as much as she wants to shove him against a wall and have her way with him, it’s almost...sweet.

Three months, and he hasn’t stopped opening doors or pulling out chairs. He listens to her ramble on about work and Rory and eats her dry, burnt biscuits without complaint. He argues with her about politics and the merits of archaeology and literature. He’s brilliant, in a way that goes far beyond arithmetic and general knowledge—he speaks more languages than she can keep track of, is well-travelled, reads physics textbooks for fun, and in his spare time, builds computers and rockets and his own robotic designs.

Half the time, she feels like she’s running just to keep up, but it’s exhilarating and inspiring, and for the first time in her life, she almost feels...whole.

She hasn’t told him yet, anything about her past. He talks sometimes about his childhood—his absent parents, the couple next door who practically raised him, but she remains tightlipped, almost more out of habit than any real reluctance. She wants to tell him—maybe not everything, but pieces. For the first time, she wants to talk about it, what it was like to grow up, alone and terrified. Abandoned.

Part of her thinks maybe she believes he can absolve her. That if this man—this brilliant, compassionate man—can still accept her—even _love_ her, perhaps—then just _maybe_ she might be worth something after all. Maybe it wasn’t all a waste.

As hard as she tries, though, she can’t get passed the knot in her throat, the fear that creeps up every time she thinks about it.

She pushes it aside as her phone rings, and smiles at the name that pops up on the screen.

“Hello, sweetie.”

“River! Happy Christmas!”

She frowns. “It isn’t Christmas for almost a month."

“But it's December! The whole month is Christmas!" In the background, she can hear carols. Since mid-November, he’s been wearing terrible, gaudy sweaters every single day, and piping songs through the loudspeaker at the school. Even Rory, who _loves_ Christmas, is starting to get annoyed, and River rolls her eyes as she hears the soft jingle of bells over the line. “Have you got your stockings up? Are you going to get a tree? You _have_ to have a tree, River.”

She rolls her eyes. “Our flat isn’t big enough for a tree, John. We have a little mesh one—”

“Mesh!” He sounds equal parts horrified and disgusted. “That won’t do at all.”

Her doorbell rings, and River laughs down the line. “I’ll have to call you back.”

“River!” he whines. “River, you can’t hang up on me in the middle of important tree conversati—”

She smirks as she hits the off button, and moves to look through the peep hole. She can’t make out anyone, just a blurry patch, but the doorbell rings again, followed by a familiar knock, and she shakes her head.

“John, you could have just said you were—”

“Happy Christmas!” comes his muffled voice from behind a thick, lush Christmas tree. He lets go to gesture, and it wobbles precariously, nearly sending him falling back down the stairs. He catches it, and peers around it with a grin, pine needles in his hair.

“John—”

“Can I come in? It’s a bit—oof!—heavy!” He totters, and River instinctively reaches out to catch them both. John’s santa hat gets caught on the leaves as she helps him guide the tree—at least two feet taller than he is—down the hall. It barely fits, knocking about the photos on the walls, and once they’re in the living room, he leaves her to hold it up while he runs back to the car, returning moments later with a bright red stand and a box of ornaments. “I wasn’t sure if you had any, so I brought these along. They’re extra from my collection, and I figured Rory would like some of the silly ones.” He pulls out a box with a photo on the front of an _Iron Man_ ornament. In the box are other familiar figures she recognises. “What’d you think?”

River eyes him sceptically. “You just happened to have all _The Avengers_ ornaments on hand, hm?”

He blushes. “Well. I mean—I—they— _The Avengers_ are cool!” he pouts, and River leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He giggles, his hand settling on her hip, and he turns his head to kiss her mouth briefly before jumping back, scratching his head, and quickly busies himself with setting up the tree.

River unpacks the ornaments, and fishes out a few of her own from the back of the linen closet.

John grins, and uses a universal remote he’d created to change the station on her radio to Christmas songs, and delights in holding it above River’s head as she tries to snatch it away from him.

“Should we put these on before Rory gets home from school, or wait and let him do it?” he asks, and River pauses a moment.

“Let’s do the fragile ones. He can hang the _Avengers_ ones later. And,” she murmurs, brushing her hand against his. “thank you. He’ll love them.”

“Anything for the little one.”

River smiles, and together, they wrap lights and tinsel around the tree, and she kicks him out of the living room to make cocoa while she hangs the fragile ones. Rolling her eyes as he sings along—badly—to all the carols, occasionally making up his own words, River pulls the last ornament of her small collection and unwraps it carefully.

It’s nothing fancy, just a gold globe, covered in random paint splotches. In big, overlapping and sometimes backwards letters, it reads, _Rory lovs Mumy._

“It’s beautiful.”

She jumps, startled to find John right behind her with a proffered mug of hot chocolate. She recovers quickly and smiles, placing the ornament in the best spot before accepting the drink.

John rubs his hands together gleefully. “Do you want to do the honours, or shall I?”

River laughs. “Oh, go on, then.”

With a flourish, John shuts off the overhead lights and plugs in the tree. The tiny, colourful lights twinkle, glinting off the tinsel and ornaments, and River’s breath catches. The top of the tree is squashed against the ceiling, and John has packed all his ornaments in one lump, proclaiming them all good friends who need close proximity or they’ll be sad. Some of the lights don’t work, and the tinsel is several years old, but it’s a real tree that smells of pine and dirt and forest, and it’s beautiful.

Swallowing tightly, she feels her eyes sting, but can’t bring herself to look away. John seems to notice, and places a gentle hand on her spine. “River?” His voice is soft, coaxing and a little worried.

“I’ve—I’ve never had a Christmas tree before,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. She tightens her fingers around her mug. “Where I grew up we didn’t—we didn’t celebrate the holidays or...much of anything, really. And I’ve just never...I mean since then, I’ve just never thought—”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, wrapping his arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” She turns, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I want to. Someday. If you…”

“I’ll be here,” he promises. “I’ll always be here.”

She smiles, and he brushes his thumb across her cheek before leaning in, kissing her sweetly. Curling her fingers in his hair, she opens her mouth beneath his, startled when he hauls her closer, both arms around her waist. He kisses her cheek, her nose, her forehead, the sides of her lips. She giggles and he kisses her neck, behind her ear, fleeting, silly presses of his lips before he captures her mouth again, and it’s all romance. The want is there, she knows, but subdued, cautioned—this isn’t about lust, as his tongue slides against hers. It’s love.

She feels like she can finally breathe.

\--

He doesn’t stay long; he has to get back to the school. But he secures a promise that she’ll attend the faculty holiday party with him, and he feels so light. Like everything is finally falling into place. He’s almost...happy.

Martha teases him kindly for his good mood, but he just grins and twirls her around the office.

He loves being able to do little things for River, slipping treats into Rory’s lunch, or bringing her flowers (always with the requisite ‘fun fact’). He goes to her shows and sits closer to the front, still unable to watch certain scenes. He claps his hands over his eyes and Jack mocks him relentlessly.

“Oh, come on, Doc—everybody loves Jack and his bean _stalk._ ” He thrusts his hips or grinds up against him and John yelps and turns pink and River soothes him with a hand on his arm until he’s recovered enough to volley back,

“Only if you buy me a drink first.”

Donna smirks and Clara makes a _tss_ sound for whatever reason, and Jack pouts.

“River didn’t have to buy you a drink.”

John lifts his chin. “That’s because she wasn’t just trying to get into my trousers.”

Donna bites her lip and Clara cackles and River says, “Actually, sweetie…”

He feels at home in their little group, and it isn’t hard to persuade Clara to join them. She and Jack get along brilliantly, and he’s endlessly amused by Donna and her husband Lee. While an entire group outing is rare—Rory makes it rather difficult for anything other than afternoon coffee—he cherishes those moments all the same.

And now, he’ll get to take River to the Christmas party, the first time he’s ever brought a date. He giggles to himself at the thought. River calls shortly after he gets back to his desk to get the time and date so she can arrange for someone to watch Rory. He hopes they’ll be able to start doing things together, the three of them. As it is, he doesn’t see River nearly as much as he’d like—her boy comes first, and while he completely agrees, it’s hard sometimes, not being able to spend time at her flat or his, just talking or making dinner. She’s been hesitant to let Rory get near him, and he respects that. But oh, he hopes.

River calls again to ask about the dress code, and then again to inform him upon penalty of death he is not allowed to wear a hat—any hat—but especially the fez he’d decorated with paper snowflakes. He grumbles but eventually agrees—but only sort of, and he isn't surprised when his phone rings a fourth time.

“All right, fine, I _promise_ not to wear the fez. Pinky swear.”

“Doctor?”

He freezes. The noises around him seem to dim, and he swallows tightly, rising from his seat to close his office door. Leaning back against it, he takes a deep breath.

“Amy.”


	8. become the fruit and the fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

Rory glowers at her from the sofa, little arms folded across his chest. "But you _promised._ "

River sighs, searching for a wayward shoe. "I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry. We'll work on it tomorrow, okay?" As she passes, she kisses his head. Rory scoots away, and her stomach drops. She hates it when he's angry with her. Especially when he's right.

They've assigned a family tree project, due after the holidays, and she's been putting it off. Doesn't know what to tell him. She knows her parents' first names—Rory and Amelia—but beyond that, she has nothing to give him. He's made little cards for Auntie Donna and Uncle Lee, and Uncle Jack, but all the other kids have grandparents, and he's been asking for weeks—what did they look like, does she have any pictures, where were they born, where was she born. And she can't answer any of it.

On top of that, John has been moody and distant. They're supposed to attend the faculty party tonight, and he's late, and while it's not unusual, combined with his attitude of late, it's grating on her nerves. Donna's already here, waiting to take Rory for the evening back to her house.

River tries to take a deep breath, but her voice comes out sterner than she'd like.

"Rory—"

"Sarah said her gamma's coming and she's gonna show everyone a blanked she maded. And everyone else has pictures." He looks up at her with tears in his eyes. "Why can't I have pictures?"

Finally spying her other shoe, River slips it on and checks her reflection in the microwave. "Rory, we've talked about this. I'll go over it with you tomorrow, okay? But tonight I'm meeting John—"

"You said that yesterday. You don't want to help me." He sniffles, his lower lip stuck out in a pout.

"I _do_ , just not tonight."

"But—"

"Rory!" she snaps, and his eyes well with tears. He turns, burying his face in the pillows, hiccuping sobs still audible.

Cursing herself, River settles onto the sofa next to him and strokes a hand over his back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled at you, sweetheart."

He sniffles loudly.

"I _promise_ , tomorrow when you get out of school we'll sit down and work on it, okay?"

Rory shakes his head stubbornly.

"Pinkie promise," she adds.

He hesitates at this, slowly dragging himself up to look at her. She smiles, brushing a hand through his hair, and Rory stares down at his lap. He hesitates, then sticks out his little finger. River takes it, curling her own pinkie around his, and with a last sniffle, Rory nods.

"Okay," he agrees, "But we have to work lots 'cause it has to be pretty, and Uncle John said he'd help me add glitter to the leaves when its done. Maybe I could meet my gamma, too, and she could give me some pictures?"

River stares at him for a moment, chest tight. She could let it go, she knows, let it wait until tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. But he deserves the truth, or a version of it he can understand, anyway.

Shaking her head slowly, River places a comforting hand on his back. "We can't meet your grandmother, Rory," she says softly, hating the way his eyes fill back up with tears.

"Why not? Doesn't she like us?"

River forces a smile. "I'm sure she would, sweetheart. It's just…Mummy doesn't know where they are, your grandparents. That's why it's always just been us, and your Uncle Jack and Auntie Donna."

Rory frowns. "But everyone else has grandparents. Some of them aren't here anymore, 'cause they've gone away forever, like Judi's gamma and grandpa. Did my grandparents go away, too?"

"I don't know," she murmurs. "Sometimes, people have kids, but they aren't ready for them. There are places that take in kids like that. My mum and dad weren't ready to have a baby, so they gave me away and hoped I would find a better family to live with."

"Did you?"

River runs her hands through his hair. "You know how, in your book, James was raised by his aunts?"

"'Cause his parents were taken by the rhino."

River nods. "Well, something sort of like that happened to Mummy when she was a little girl. I was raised by not nice people, too, but they weren't family. And when I was older, I moved away, kind of like James when he gets in the peach."

Considering this, Rory bites his lip. "So…you didn't have a mummy at all?"

River shakes her head. "No, I didn't."

He blinks, and tears spill over his cheeks. "Or a daddy?"

"No, no daddy."

Rory sniffles, crawling into her lap to wrap his arms around her neck. "I love you, Mummy."

Holding back her own tears, River kisses his temple and hugs him tightly. "I love you, too, sweetheart. So very, very much."

Tightening his little grip, Rory buries his face in her neck. "Everyone should have a mummy," he whispers, and River smiles.

"It's okay. You know why?"

He pulls back, looking at her curiously.

"Because I got to _be_ a mummy, and that's even better." She pokes his side and he giggles, the sound turning to laughter when she tickles him, turning him over into the sofa and smothering his face with kisses.

"Oi, what's going on in here?"

"Auntie Donna, save me!" he gasps, still cackling, arms and legs pushing feebly at River's hands.

Donna shakes her head. "Afraid I can't help you, sir. It's a mother's right to tickle."

Rory shrieks, then tackles River when she finally relents. The doorbell rings, and River huffs, carefully extricating herself. "That'll be John. You gonna be okay with Auntie Donna for a bit?"

Rory nods. "You're coming back though, right?"

Frowning, River crouches down in front of him, heedless of John leaning on the doorbell. "Of course I am. Why would you say that?"

Smiling fading, Rory looks down at his shoes. "Just. Cause you've been going away _a lot._ "

"Oh, sweetheart. I will _always_ come back. No matter what." Rory nods, but looks unconvinced. Hesitating, she adds softly, "Your grandparents didn't want a baby. But I did. And I would never, ever give you up, and I will _always_ come back to you."

"Promise?"

River smiles. "Pinkie promise."

\--

The party is a nice, casual affair at a local bar. Christmas music plays softly in the background, the drinks keep coming, and River is stunning in a short, crimson dress, her hair piled on her head with a few tendrils hanging down. She looks stunning, of course, turning more than a few heads. He tries not to notice.

A few teachers, the more conservative ones, arch their eyebrows, but no one says a word to him, and under normal circumstances he’d be strutting around like a peacock, introducing her to everyone and—in the most feminist way possible—letting them know she’s with _him._ He’d say she’s his, but, really, it’s the other way round. And he’s not adverse to showing it most of the time.

But tonight he can’t summon the enthusiasm. Hasn't been able to for weeks. Amy’s phone call has been in the back of his mind, her tired, hopeful voice, asking if he’s made any progress. If he’s found their daughter.

Every time he looks at her, something inside him rips for guilt.

River stays with him for about an hour, but eventually wanders away, and he feels all the worse for the hurt look she tries to bury behind a chin held high. She chats with a few of Rory’s teachers, laughing and smiling; but she glances over at him every so often, an invitation to join her.

He doesn’t.

He stays by the bar, nursing a soda, thoughts swirling. He has to tell her. He _can’t_ tell her.

_“You said you’d find my baby. You said you’d find Melody.”_

“I know, Amy, I’m trying, but—”

“You promised. I’ve already—I’ve already missed all those years, Doctor. And I can’t stand it. I can’t.”

He shakes his head. He can’t keep doing this. Rory—Rory Pond—had taken the phone and chastised him for getting Amy’s hopes up; for telling her he had any leads at all, and John knows he’s right. He owes Amy the truth. Owes all of them the truth. Turning, he scans the crowd for River.

But what if he loses her? _Again._

“Looking for your date?”

Mickey sits down next to him, Martha not far behind.

“Yeah. Should probably go apologise. Been a bit rotten tonight.”

Martha snorts. “No kidding.”

He frowns, still unable to locate her. “Have you seen her?”

They both shake their heads, and Mickey calls out to one of the science teachers across the bar.

“You mean the show girl?”

John turns his neck so fast it cracks, glower levelled at the teacher.

She merely purses her lips. “She left. Just a few minutes ago,” she adds grudgingly, and John vaults out of his seat.

It’s snowing lightly, and John blinks, whirling in place to find her. He spots her a block and a half down, carefully navigating the slush in her heels. “River!” He darts after her, skidding on the slick patches. It’s easy to catch up with her, even at his clumsy pace, and she glares at him before trying to step around him. “River, what are you doing? It’s freezing out here.”

“I’m going home, what does it look like,” she snaps.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

If looks could kill, he thinks, but keeps tripping backwards in front of her.

“I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been much fun this evening—”

“Oh, no. You’ve been a right joy.”

“River—”

She stops abruptly. “Why did you bring me?”

“What? Why are you—”

“Was it just some kind of joke?” She shoves past him, then turns and glowers, but her voice cracks. “Or was this just your way of breaking up with me? Letting your colleagues do it for you?”

“River, I swear, I have no idea what you’re—”

“No, you don’t! Because instead of staying with me, you’ve been parked at the bloody bar all night, while I had to endure lecture and ridicule from your staff, who apparently have actually _read_ the handbook that prohibits parent/faculty relationships.” She takes a deep breath, but instead of calming her, it just seems to give her more steam. “Lori, the grade four maths instructor, thinks single parent households are a sin, and is _so relieved_ I’ve found a male partner; Janet was quick to assure me that single mothers are fine, but I really should be worried about my son’s affinity for skirts; and your assistant’s assistant thinks I’m a bloody hooker!”

John gapes at her, floundering. “I—I’m _so_ sorry, I—”

“He asked for my hourly rate, John!"

Cursing himself, John follows as she stalks away, keeping pace and apologising, promising he'll talk to them and set everyone straight.

River shakes her head and grits out, "I don't care what they think, John, I care what you—" Her voice catches. "You've been distant. Ever since you asked me—ever since that afternoon—"

"No, River." He grabs her arm finally, pulling her to him.

"If you don't want this just say so."

"I do. You have no idea—"

"Well you have a funny way of showing it."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry, I—" He reaches for words. "I can't explain it. I don't know how to—"

"Well, figure it out," she snaps. "And don't bother calling until you do."

When she walks away this time, he doesn't follow, but he can hear the underlying message in her words: _I'll be waiting._

As angry as she is, he knows, she'll wait. She shouldn't, but she will, and it hurts more than he ever expected, and he knows, now—he could lose her anyway.

\--

In the days leading up to Christmas, River puts on a smile and pretends everything is fine. She wraps presents—cheap little trinkets for her friends, and a few things Rory has been pining for. It's not enough, not nearly the holiday she wants to give him, and every time she looks at the tree, her chest hurts.

Rory, thankfully, remains oblivious, too excited about presents and Santa and getting to watch his mother's Christmas show. It isn't exactly child-friendly, per say, but most of it will go over his head, and he loves the costumes and lights so much, she can't bear to deny him. The days have been packed with rehearsals, all the more stressful for keeping Rory with her, but she's grateful for his presence.

She's always grateful, but since the party, she's worried she might falter without him. Might break down. It's only been two weeks, but she's heard nothing from John. Not a word. No cards of flowers, and she misses him more than she thought possible.

Rory keeps her head high, and Jack and Donna refuse to let her wallow.

"I always thought he was a bit of a prat," Donna says, though River knows she didn't really. "And all limbs. Far too skinny. You need a man with some meat on his bones."

"Like me," Jack flirts.

"Like Ryan Gosling."

"Exact—hey!"

The Christmas run is always stressful, but it brings in just enough extra to buy gifts, and cook a decent Christmas dinner. She's working Christmas eve, so they plan their tiny celebration for after. Jack always finds someone to take home, his holiday ritual, and Donna and Lee pack up after the last show and head to Manchester to be with Lee's sister and her family.

It leaves River and Rory on their own, but she likes it that way. Looks forward to waking him up with hot cocoa and freshly baked cinnamon rolls, and watching him open presents. It's enough to keep her mind busy, even after the last curtain call.

Rory falls asleep before he's even buckled, and River smiles, pressing a kiss to his forehead before driving them home. There are gifts in the boot and a platter of Donna'a homemade biscuits in the front seat, and the smell keeps her awake for the drive home.

It's a balancing act getting everything—and an exhausted Rory up the steps, and she's grateful the door pushes open with ease until the lock catches the light from the street lamp and she realises—it's broken.

Freezing, she listens. There are no sounds from inside the apartment, but that doesn't mean anything. Setting down the bags, she grips Rory tightly with one arm, and slowly, carefully, moves through the front hall. 

The place is trashed. Picture frames are broken, glass scattered on the floor. The TV is gone, along with the radio. Half her vases and artefacts are missing, the other half smashed, her coffee table's gone, the kitchen in disarray. Anything of even remotely any value is gone, even ornaments from the tree.

Her favourite, the one Rory made, is smashed to pieces on the floor.

Shoving it aside, she moves silently, all her training kicking in, down the hall to the linen closet. From the top shelf, buried in the back beneath a pile of blankets, is a lock box. She can tell by the weight without opening it that the gun is still in place, still empty; she keeps the bullets in a separate box, and finding that, knows they're all there, too.

Relieved, but still wary, she checks the apartment once more before laying Rory on the bed. She packs a bag, his backpack, and hides the gun and bullets in her purse, not wanting to leave them in the unlocked flat.

She can’t afford a hotel, and staying in her flat with a broken lock isn’t an option.

There’s only one place she can go.


	9. become the liked and the loathed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

John stares at the pages, but doesn't read, the words blurring together, losing their meaning one by one.

He's trying to let go. Trying, desperately, to put as much distance between them as he can, to let her move on; he won't, he knows, but she could find someone. Someone better. Someone kinder.

Someone who doesn't run from their mistakes and their past or lie at every other turn. She deserves that.

She deserves everything, and so far, he's been too much of a coward to even try to give it to her.

The knock on the door pulls him out of his self-flagellation, and he glances at the clock with a frown. It’s too late for anyone to be calling, but the knock sounds again, almost harried, and he clamours to his feet.

River stands on the other side of the threshold, Rory in her arms, his backpack over her shoulder, and a small duffel at her feet and for a moment he can't breathe.

It's been three weeks, and he's missed her like a limb, finding himself talking to the air or reaching for a hand that isn't present. He wants to apologise. Wants to hold her and kiss her and tell her everything and beg her forgiveness. Beg her to stay.

Instead, he clears his throat and rasps her name.

"I didn't want to come here," she says stubbornly, voice shaking only slightly. "But our flat was broken into and we had nowhere else—"

He ushers them in without another word, scooping up her bag and closing the door behind them. River looks pale, her eyes wide and her grip on Rory unnecessarily tight.

He motions her down the hallway into the sitting room, and despite the stuff set of her shoulders, she looks like she belongs.

“Can I get you anything?"

"I'm fine," she snaps, her voice brittle and harsh, meant to wound. It's a reflex, he knows, but it hurts. He deserves it.

River takes a deep breath and lowers herself to the sofa, Rory still in her arms. "A cup of tea?" It's a question, an apology, and he takes he greedily. He nips into the kitchen to put on the kettle, and when he comes back River has her eyes closed tightly, her face pressed to Rory’s temple. He’s asleep, as far as John can tell. He sits on the coffee table across from her, their knees almost brushing.

The silence stretches, the ticking of his wall clock inordinately loud, and it's a long moment before he summons the courage to speak.

"Are you—you're both okay?"

Eyes still closed, River nods. "We weren’t home."

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Did they take—?"

She snorts. "Everything that wasn't bolted down."

"I'm sorry."

She shrugs. "They're just things."

John nods. He studies her as she looks around the room, and he wonders: does she look for exits? Tactical advantages? Blunt objects?

She meets his gaze. "Your lights are off."

"What?"

"Your Christmas lights."

He looks over his shoulder at the tree in the corner, the lights strung haphazardly around the room.

"Didn't feel like celebrating," he admits, and she inhales sharply.

"John—"

"I'm sorry. For the party, the way I've been acting, I—"

"It's okay."

"It's really not."

"Maybe," she concedes. "But I overreacted. It wasn't your fault, and I—I do that. I push people."

"It's understandable." At her questioning glance, he covers, "It's not just you you have to think about."

“It’s more than that. Before I left, Rory...he asked why we haven’t been spending as much time together. He noticed.” She looks up at him, her expression fragile and he wants so badly to wrap his arms around her. “And I just—it made me wonder. If it was worth it.”

John swallows tightly, then admits, “It is to me. You—you and Rory are—to me, you’re—” _Everything. Precious. Perfect._

River nods. “Good,” she whispers.

Berating himself, John tugs a hand through his hair. “I talked to the staff.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“It’s more than that. I don’t want them teaching those kinds of prejudices to the students.”

River nods slowly. “Okay. Thank you.” She hugs Rory to her chest, smiling as he snuffles at her shoulder. "God, he’s getting heavy.”

John deliberates. “I don’t have a guest room, but we could give him my room, so you can stay with him?”

She looks surprised. “That’d be perfect. He’s already set.”

John admires his car and truck pyjamas. “This way."

He grabs her things and leads her down the hall. His bedroom is sparsely decorated, with a small bed he rarely sleeps in, a chest, and a nightstand.

River smiles, shuffling Rory to lie down while John rearranges the pillows and fluffs the blankets and helps tuck Rory in, his hands fluttering over River’s every so often. Her skin is cool where his is warm, and he has the sudden urge to press her palms to his cheeks.

Oblivious, River pulls a tattered rabbit out of Rory’s backpack, and he curls into it with small snuffling noises. “Mr. Bunny,” she whispers, and John nods.

“Excellent name.”

She smiles, brushes Rory’s hair back from his face and kisses his temple, and John smothers the desire to do the same.

Instead, he leaves her to say goodnight. She follows him back into the living room and settles on the far end of the sofa, tea in her hands.

“Not that I’m not grateful, but I wish you had something stronger.”

John chuckles. “Afraid not.”

She blows on the tea. “Any particular reason you don’t drink?”

He wrinkles his nose. “It’s gross.”

“That’s what my son says when I try to make him eat broccoli.”

“Smart boy.”

River smiles cautiously over the lip of her cup, but it fades quickly as she plucks at a thread in her shirt. “Thank you,” she says finally, “For letting us—I really don’t know what we’d have done if you’d sent me away.”

He doesn’t comment on the pronoun slip, but his eyes soften as he shakes his head. “That would never happen.”

“I know,” she says, “It’s not in your nature.”

She thinks he means generally, and John licks his lips nervously. “I meant more for you,” he admits. “Whatever you need, whenever, you can always—I mean, I’ll always be here, if you—a place to stay, or a ride, or a—” He can’t bring himself to say _friend._

“A what?”

He swallows. “Whatever,” he manages. “I’ll just be around, to, you know...catch you.” He winces at his own wording, glaring into his tea as if its tied his tongue.

“Why?” she asks, and the question startles him, neck snapping up.

“Why what?”

“Why me?” When he frowns, River huffs. “You’ve a great career, you’re brilliant—” He preens at that, and she rolls her eyes. “ _moderately_ good looking—”

“Oi!”

Her lips twitch. “You don’t seem to be hurting for finances, so what is it? Recovering alcoholic? Prison record? Lousy in bed?”

John chokes on his tea. “ _River—_ ”

“I’m just saying, there has to be something, or why else would you bother?”

“Bother with what?”

She shrugs. “Someone like me.” John opens his mouth to protest, but River holds up a hand. “I’m not being insecure, I’m being rational. I’m a single mother with a spotty past, working paycheque to paycheque taking my clothes off in front of strangers four nights a week. That’s not exactly the jackpot, for any bloke.”

John narrows his eyes. “Is that really how you see yourself?”

River snorts. “What other way is there to see it? It’s my life. It isn’t pretty, but it’s what I have.”

“You should be proud of it.”

She shrugs. “I’m proud of some things. Rory, mainly. I’m a good mother.”

“You’re an amazing mother,” he corrects, delighting in the way she flushes. “You wouldn’t believe how many parents treat their children like accessories, or pay attention to them only when it’s convenient. You know, half the students in my school develop crushes on their teachers by the time they hit grade seven? It’s because it’s the first time anyone’s paid the kind of attention to them they deserve; the first time anyone’s treated them like they’re their own person, and the education board would fire me for this, but that’s more valuable than any amount of arithmetic and English lessons. And Rory—he’s had that all his life. He’s never going to question if someone loves him. He’s got you.”

When he finishes, he risks a glance, shocked to find tears in her eyes as she stares at him, lips parted. Her hands shake as she sets down her mug and stands. John follows suit, not sure what they’re doing or why, but when she takes his hand, it’s like coming home. Her eyes are bright as she looks up at him and licks her lips. She tries to speak, he can tell, by the way her throat flutters, but then her fingers are tangled in his hair and she’s drawing him down, and her lips are on his and he’s forgotten this part, what to do. His arms pinwheel at his sides, resting briefly on her hips and her shoulders before taking flight again, and when she pulls away, he’s clenched his hands together behind his back in an effort to keep them still.

“What—” He clears his throat. “What was that for?”

“Nothing,” she murmurs. “Just—thank you. For everything.”

“Anytime,” he manages. “Are we—?”

She nods. “We’re okay.”

He smiles hesitantly. “And we’re still…?”

She chuckles. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “We’re still.”

Beaming, he surges forward and kisses her again, with more finesse, more care, everything he wants to say put into the slide of his tongue against hers and his hands over her hips. She sinks into him, hands sliding under the criss-cross of his braces at his back, and his skin hums. His knees buckle, and he sinks into the chair, pulling her with him. She straddles his legs, hands roaming, breath warm against his lips as she pants between kisses.

“That’s why,” he manages, breathing heavily.

River nuzzles her nose against his jaw. “That’s why what?”

“That’s why you.”

He can tell by her confused little frown that she doesn’t know if he means his speech or the kiss, and frankly neither does he; but she smiles, and kisses him again, and he can’t help sliding his hands under her shirt, her skin bare and smooth and she shudders slightly. His thumb brushes the side of her breast and she inhales sharply, pulling back to look at him.

“Are you—” She swallows. “We don’t have to.”

“Do you want—?”

“Yes,” she admits. “But you haven’t—”

“I do,” he promises, kissing her chin, fingers tracing patterns over her spine. “Believe me, I do.”

She frowns. “But?”

Pushing aside his guilt, he shakes his head. “No buts. If you…?”

Rolling her eyes, River tugs at his braces and shirt. “Shut up, sweetie.”

“Make me.”

“Maybe I will.”

He giggles, focused on nipping at her jaw and neck that he doesn’t realise his hands have tugged her shirt over her head until she’s bare from the waist up, pressed against his groin, and he stares at her in the low light. His fingers trace her collarbone, her chest, down around her breasts and she shivers.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, ignoring the heat in his own belly as he holds her close. River bites her lip, and he kisses away the crease between her eyes. “ _Beautiful,_ ” he reiterates.

When she meets his mouth, he can feel her smile.


	10. become the whisper and the shout

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

She wakes up to a poking at her cheek, and wrinkles her nose, forcing her eyes open. She hears his giggle before he comes fully into focus, standing in front of the sofa in his pyjamas. He pokes her cheek again and she reaches out, catching his hand and kissing it loudly.

Rory laughs, and behind her John stirs, poking his head up over her shoulder. Rory freezes, blinking at him, and John gives a hesitant wave. “Hello.”

River, for her part, is extremely grateful they both put clothes back on—John in a pair of sweatpants and River in leggings and one of John’s shirts. Sitting up, forcing John to do the same, she motions Rory into her lap, and pulls the blanket around both of them. Rory continues to stare at John.

“Did you sleep okay, sweetheart?”

“Why are you and Mr. Principal John Doctor on the sofa?”

“Because you were in the bed, remember? And we needed to sleep, too.”

“Oh.” He frowns. “Are we going home soon? I want to open presents.”

“You can do that here!” John says, shuffling off the sofa quickly and snatching up a shirt on the floor. He kicks River’s knickers under the armchair before Rory can see them. “We can set them out under the tree!” He skids over to the lights and plugs them in, and the whole room lights up; a plastic dog starts barking _Jingle Bells,_ and Rory looks like he might faint. But then he turns to River, his eyes wide and wet, bottom lip quivering.

River brushes his hair back from his face. “What’s wrong, love?”

“If we’re not home, Santa won’t know where we are.”

River freezes. Santa. She’d completely forgotten about Santa. She has a gift for Rory from “him”, but it’s in the car, along with the other presents. She’d meant to put them under the tree after he’d gone to bed, but got...distracted. Cursing herself, she throws a look at John, who immediately grins.

“That’s not true at all!” he exclaims. “Santa always knows how to find you.”

Rory sniffles and points to the empty tree. “But there’s nothing there.”

“Ah,” John says, crouching down next to Rory. “That’s because sometimes Santa gets a bit confused when little boys and girls change houses. He always knows where they are, but sometimes he doesn’t always leave presents under the tree, or he’s a little bit late. I bet, if we look for them, we’ll find your presents. What’d you think?”

Wiping a pudgy hand across his face, Rory looks to River with hope. “Mummy?”

Heart fit to burst, River nods, and Rory jumps off her lap, grabbing John’s hand. “Where should we look first Mr. Principal Smith Doctor?”

River laughs. “You can call him John, honey.”

Rory frowns. “But he’s the Principal.”

“Well, yes, but…”

Still at Rory’s eye level, John says, “You see, Rory, the thing is, I—I’m rather fond of your mum, as well as you, and well, you know we’ve been spending a lot of time together, and—it’s just—we sort of—” He fumbles, looking to River for help.

“John and I really like each other, sort of like Uncle Lee and Auntie Donna.”

Rory frowns. “You’re marriaged?”

River bites down a smile. “No, we’re not married. But it’s sort of like that, a bit.”

“Cause you go dating to nice restaurants?”

John laughs. “Yeah.”

Rory considers this. “Will there be kissing? Uncle Lee and Auntie Donna do lots of kissing.”

Blushing furiously, John nods. “Well, um, yes, I suppose there will be a fair amount of, um...kissing.”

“Oh.” He eyes John, little face scrunched. “Okay,” he says, “But if you and Mummy are going to be like Auntie Donna and Uncle Lee, that means you have to cook dinner and do what Mummy says. Auntie Donna says Uncle Lee has to do that so you have to do it, too.”

River giggles, a hand over her mouth to keep quiet while John scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I’ll, uh. I’ll do my best, Rory. I’m afraid I’m a terrible cook, though.”

Rory shrugs. “That’s okay. Uncle Lee’s a bad cook, too, but he tries so that’s what counts.” He bounces in place. “Can we go look for presents now?”

“Absolutely,” John says, relieved.

Rory kisses River on the cheek and grins. “Mr. Principal John Doctor and me are gonna look for Santa!” Tugging on John’s hand, he leads them out of the room, and as soon as they’re out of view, River scrambles off the couch. She grabs John’s jacket and keys, slips out to the car and hastily puts the presents under the tree. She can hear Rory laughing and John’s quiet voice as they examine each room, and pops to the loo to brush her teeth and get dressed, then sets about making tea.

She’s interrupted by Rory’s squeal of delight and “Mummy, Mummy come look! Santa found us!”

Carrying two cups of tea and a mug of cocoa for Rory, she returns to the living room. Under the tree, are double the amount of presents she’d placed there not ten minutes ago—boxes of all shapes and sizes, impeccably wrapped, in a multitude of different papers. She gasps, eyes darting to John, who seems intent on ignoring her gaze, instead crouched with Rory and helping him shake the boxes to see what’s in them.

“Can I open them, Mummy, can I?”

River nods, stunned. “One, then breakfast, and then you can open the rest.”

Rory beams. “Okay!”

He takes a long while deciding which one to open first. It’s one of John’s, and he shrieks with joy as he pulls out a bright turquoise vest with sequins in the shape of a smile. “Mummy, mummy, look! It sparkles!”

“Yes, it does!”

He tugs it on over his pyjamas, dancing in place, but River’s eyes are on John, watching her little boy fondly.

They make breakfast—and John was right, he is a terrible cook—and Rory shovels down his eggs and toast, squirming in his seat. River keeps one hand on John’s knee beneath the table, flashing grateful looks the entire time.

Usually, Rory opens his presents slowly, spanned out over the entire day. He usually only gets one or two, but beneath the tree are at least ten things with his name on them, and he can’t contain himself. River laughs, watching him, a bow stuck in his hair, wearing all the clothes and socks.

River gives John an old, vintage book on archaeology, just to see him sputter, along with a fez keychain he can keep on him, but not wear. He gives her a dress, thick-strapped in a deep, shimmering green with a subtle bow, and a necklace to match. She kisses him in thanks, and Rory wrinkles his nose and plays with his new toy truck and Wonder Woman action figure, occasionally abandoning them to pet his new collection of books.

But the real gift, at least in River’s eyes, is the last one, hidden at the back of the tree. Rory almost misses it, until John holds it out to him, and he opens it as carefully as he can. Under the bow and wrapping is a box, and when he lifts the lid, his eyes widen. River frowns, attempting to peer across the table until he finally pulls out, with the utmost reverence, a pair of shiny, pink Mary Janes.

They aren’t exactly the same as his beloved pair, but there’s a sparkly bow on the strap of each, and Rory flings himself at John, hugging him fiercely.

River sniffs, blinking away an errant tear at the sight, at the thought John put into all of their gifts, but especially these.

“Thank you, Doctor John. For all my presents but especially these because mine got broked—broken—and they were my favourites. I love these even more.” Perched on John’s lap, he stares in awe at his new shoes. “Can I wear them?”

“Not in the hous—”

“Of course!” John flushes. “I mean, I don’t care, if it’s okay with—”

River nods, and helps him with the thin buckles. Clicking his heels together, Rory grins and jumps down, spinning on the hardwood floors and laughing, nattering on about how he has the best shoes in the whole school, and the best presents, and the best Christmas. River’s chest aches, in the best way possible, and she curls into John’s side.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“Stay with me.”

“What?”

He cranes his neck to look at her. “Stay here, for a while. You’re welcome to, I mean, if you want.”

River hesitates. “My flat—”

“It’s not safe, River. Stay with me.”

“For how long?”

“As long as you want.”

She bites her lip. “Are you sure you—”

“Yes.”

Nodding slowly, River hedges, “I’ll talk to Rory. I’d need to get some things.”

John grins.

“And it wouldn’t be permanent. Just until I can find a safer neighbourhood. Maybe closer to the club.”

He wraps an arm around her waist. “I’m close to the club.” River snorts. “Seriously. Ten minute drive, in traffic.”

“I’ll think about it,” she promises, brushing his cheek with her knuckles.

John tightens his grip. “Good.”

\--

They stay with him through the new year.

Every morning, he wakes up to her face buried in his pillow, and at night, he gets to hold her, touch her.

School starts up again, and he takes Rory to school sometimes. They bond quickly, even occasionally teaming up, begging River for biscuits or an hour more of telly, or simply joining forces in a ticklefest. As if he wasn’t already attached, he’s grown to love the little boy, for his curiosity, his intelligence, his heart.

River starts work on a new show, and despite his protests, insists on paying for part of the rent. He tries fudging the numbers, but when she finds out, her outrage quickly deters him from doing anything of the sort ever again.

He isn’t wealthy by any means, but he’s always saved, and he enjoys being able to spoil her—not too much, he finds, or she glares and locks him out of the bedroom, unwilling to accept what she thinks might be charity, but enough. Enough little things that make her smile.

He still sends flowers to her shows, with little cards tucked in the bouquet, except now, when she gets home, smelling of alcohol and sweat and musty clothes, she adds the card to her box and drags him into the shower with her.

She’s still a bit reluctant to leave Rory with him for too long, but he’s working up to it, earning both their trust, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying how much he needs it. How much he loves them both.

He hasn’t said, of course, and neither has she, but he thinks she knows. He knows, by the way she looks at him sometimes, heart on her sleeve.

The downside, of course, to having her live with him, is that his work—his other work—is often waylaid. He’s hidden it all, of course, in a self-made hidden closet his landlord would string him for, and in a loose floorboard under the bed. He works at school, sometimes when she’s asleep or at the club, researching for other families. But he doesn’t think about Amy. Pushes her and Rory Pond as far from his thoughts as he can, because losing River isn’t something he’s willing to risk.

So he lies.

Tells the Ponds he’s hit a dead end. That he’ll keep looking, but he isn’t hopeful.

He’s a tired, selfish old man, and he just needs more time. Time to figure out how to tell her. To figure out if she’ll stay.

It’s harder now. Now that they’re closer, now that she’s living with him, she opens up more. Little things, little clues that if he didn’t know, he’d be scrambling to put together. It’s months before she tells him anything concrete.

They’re in bed, long after Rory has gone to sleep. She traces circles absently on his chest, over the scar he obtained from being pushed out of a tree as a child, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his arm around her waist. He mentions something about locking his keys in the car (again) and how he’ll need to call his insurance company in the morning.

River snorts, a bit sleepily, and the sound is—though he’d never tell her—adorable. “Don’t bother,” she mumbles. “Give me two minutes and a wire hanger, you’ll be good to go.”

“A what?”

River stiffens. “Nothing. It was a joke.”

“Okay,” he says, running a hand up and down her arm to soothe her. She’s quiet a long time, so long he thinks she’s fallen asleep, until she murmurs his name in the dark.

“Hmm?”

“Can I tell you something?”

He closes his eyes, grateful she can’t see his face. “Of course.”

She doesn’t speak right away, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“When I was younger I….worked...for someone who did a lot of...illegal things. A lot of really bad things. _I_ did a lot of—” She cuts herself off.

“You can tell me,” he murmurs. “It’s okay.”

She’s tense in his arms. “Most of it was...not harmless, but. I stole cars. Jewelry. Museum pieces. Anything that made money, really. There was a group of us, we all worked for—for them.” _Her,_ he corrects in his head, but doesn’t say. “It wasn’t really—I never killed anyone. But I _hurt_...I hurt a lot of people. It was how we grew up. We didn’t see any other way.”

“You got out,” he murmurs, tightening his hold. “You don’t do that anymore. Unless you’ve got a bank of Mercedes hidden away somewhere I don’t know about.”

River snorts. “If I did, I’d be in Tahiti, not here leeching off you.”

“You’re not a leech,” he grumbles, poking her in the side.

He feels her smile against his chest, but it fades quickly. “I didn’t have a family growing up. Or friends, really. I told Rory—he asked, and I told him my parents gave me up."

"They didn't?"

"I don't know. Sometimes, I like to think so—that they wanted me to have a better life, maybe. But the truth is they abandoned me. Left me on the side of the road in a basket. The woman who ran the orphanage took me in, but it wasn't—no one told me it was wrong, or—it was just...what we did. To survive. They—the people we worked for—they weren’t very forgiving if you didn’t succeed.”

John’s stomach churns at the lie, and he has to keep himself from balling his hands into fists. “What happened?” he asks, barely a whisper, because he _knows._ It confirms his suspicions, that some of the kids either couldn't remember, or weren't _allowed_ to remember what really happened. He tries to push it to the side, to rage over later, when she isn't there.

“If you were given a job—stealing a car, robbing a store, even...hurting someone—and didn’t do it, or didn’t finish, they—” She clears her throat. “They had a brand. Every time someone came home empty handed they used to—used to—”

“It’s okay.”

She inhales sharply, but doesn’t cry. He isn’t sure she knows how.

“You got out,” he repeats. “You’re safe now.”

She nods, but her hand curls into a fist over his heart. “I was lucky. I ran away when I was fifteen. Changed my name. Crossed the ocean. But the others...I left them. I left so many.”

He hugs her tighter. “You did what you had to do, River. You had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she whispers.

She doesn’t say anything after that. Dragging a hand down her arm as she presses her face into his chest, he realises. His throat tightens, but he has to know. Has to ask.

“River,” he murmurs, barely a whisper. “You don’t have any scars.”

She doesn’t answer. For a long while, minutes, maybe hours, she doesn’t reply. She breathes in his scent, and he breathes in hers, and holds her as close as he dares.

And then, her admission, so quiet he feels the movement of her lips more than her words,

“I never failed.”


	11. between the bruise and the blow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

She doesn’t tell him everything.

Doesn’t tell him about Kovarian, or the feeble caretaker who watched the children. Doesn’t tell him about the gang members who used to guard the doors and give them assignments or punish the kids when they came back empty handed. That when she ran, she stowed away on a cargo vessel; that it took her two years just to get to England, where she changed her name and forged her paperwork and got a job giving lap dances in a seedy pub in Brighton.

But just that he has an idea, just the little bit she does tell him, makes her feel lighter. She knows, now, that even if she did tell him everything, he would stay. He wouldn’t run.

She has Jack, of course, who knows the story, and Donna, who knows pieces, but to have someone to come home to, someone she can curl up next to after a long day; someone she can trust to hold her through the occasional nightmare and not pry, it’s a greater gift than she deserves.

Because somehow, he seems to get it. Seems to know exactly what she needs, and she tries to be the same for him. Tries to be someone he can confide in, he can talk to, he can share his past and his present with.

She wants his future, too, but she isn’t sure they’re quite there yet. But it would be so easy, she knows. So easy to let the words bubbling in her heart spill past her lips. She feels it every time he looks at her, every time he looks at Rory, that they’re precious to him. That somehow, he’d defend them to his last breath if he had to.

And she knows, she’d do the same.

It’s liberating, in a way she’s never known before, and even if it doesn’t last—though she can’t think about that—it will have been worth it, in the end. For this piece of happiness.

Rory, too, seems even better than before. John helps him with his maths homework, and lets Rory read to him for hours. They spend weekends at museums or arcades or taking walks in the park. She isn’t jealous like she always thought she would be, when Rory comes home from school and tells John first about something new they learned, or that he got to hold the class rabbit. Instead, she feels bright and warm, watching her little boy find a father figure, someone who genuinely cares.

He’s terribly awkward, of course, but he learns how to bandage skinned knees and wipe tears; he joins in Rory’s silly dances, even lets Rory dress him up in her burlesque skirts and feather boas.

He teaches Rory how to cook and scolds him when he doesn’t clean his room—he has his own room, though it’s small and more like a large closet than anything else, but it’s his, and he spends the first few weeks leaving everything on the floor, just because he can.

John is everything she’s ever wanted in a role-model for her son, and it makes it all the harder to resist him. Not that she’s really trying. More than anything, she wants to be for him what he is to her.

Which is how she finds herself in his flat on her free afternoon, preparing his favourite dinner—fish fingers, custard, jammie dodgers, and, for her own sanity, a plate of greens—placing candles, and slipping into a new lingerie set just for the occasion. She’s managed to get him tickets to private lecture at Oxford about cosmology and string theory, and though it isn’t his birthday—she has bigger plans for that—it still seems like an occasion to celebrate. Plus, John is far more of a romantic than she’s ever been, and she wants to return the favour, or at least try.

With food in the oven and the stereo on low, River heads into the bedroom to shower and change before he gets home. Rory’s with Lee for the evening, and won’t be dropped off until ten, so they’ll have plenty of time for dinner and...other things.

She’s putting on the last of her makeup when he calls, saying he’s on his way. She plays nonchalant, all the while smiling, thinking of the perfectly set dishes and dim lighting and playing footsie under the table.

Smoothing down her dress—the green one he’d bought for Christmas—she opens her jewelry box and finds a pair of simple studs.

The oven timer dings just as she’s putting the second on in, and she startles, dropping it. Cursing, she hurries to rescue the dessert before getting down on her hands and knees to look for the earring.

“Oh, naturally,” she grumbles, finally spying it halfway under the bed.

Laying on her stomach—highly glamorous, she thinks—she shuffles under the bed to grab it, and, _of course,_ knocks it into a loose floorboard.

The bed is fairly easy to move, as they discovered after the first few, rather recreational evenings—she smirks at the memory, and hastily reaches a hand in, blindly feeling for the earring.

Instead, her hand brushes something else, papers, she thinks, and she frowns. Manoeurvring to get a better grip, she pulls a folder out of the slot in the floorboards. Rolling her eyes, she sets it aside—John’s always losing things, dropping things, and she’s constantly finding random items under dressers or rugs or wedged between the couch cushions.

Snatching the wayward stud, River pushes the floorboard back into place moves the bed. Huffing, she gets to her feet, and drops the folder on the nightstand for John to find.

When she does, a photo slides out.

For a moment, she simply stares at it, confused. The hairs on the back of her neck go up, and she bends slowly, picking up the photograph.

It’s her, but it’s not a photo she remembers posing for. Though it’s black and white, it looks like summer, with the trees in bloom, and she remembers that day, standing outside the club. The air conditioner broke, and they’d taken a break outside, still in their costumes.

But she hadn’t known John then. He’d been sending her flowers, of course, but she’d never spoken to him.

She tries to shrug it off—it was _John_ after all, and he was a bit strange, but something nags at her.

“Don’t,” she mutters to herself. _Don’t sabotage yourself. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation._

She opens the folder to put it back, forget about it, and her heart stops. From the newspaper article at the top of the pile, Kovarian sneers out of a mug shot photo.

It's been so long since she's seen her face, River almost doesn't recognise her. She stares at the clipping, and for a moment it's like she's a spectator. Like she hasn't seen that face in her nightmares; hasn't spent half her life running from it.

She lifts the article with shaking hands. Beneath it is another.

_FBI cracks FL crime ring case; dozens prosecuted._

And another:

_New evidence links series of 1970s child kidnapping a to FL crime ring._

And another:

_Families of kidnap victims come forward, FBI overwhelmed._

And another:

_Kovarian sentenced to life in maximum security._

River stares at the headlines, the photographs. Children being interviewed, testimonies, interest pieces. Interviews with parents, the rare story of a family reunited. She doesn’t know how long she stands there, barely breathing.

Then she moves.

She tears apart John’s desk, digs through his closet, empties drawers until she finds it: a hidden closet within the closet filled with more folders, more files, more articles. Photographs of her, from a distance, without her knowledge. Interviews, tapes, police reports.

_New evidence in FL crime ring case links intelligence testing facility to kidnappings._

In his tweed jacket, the one he'd traded in this morning for the purple waistcoat he wears to meetings, she finds a blue notebook, full of photographs and notes. They’re all of her, about her life. Images of her and Rory at the club, at their apartment. Scribbles in the margins of pages—

_Son Rory / Rory Williams Pond father_

Melody Pond = Mels Zucker?

Escaped at 15, US, London - how??

Melody Pond = Mels Zucker = River Song

Idris Bar, burlesque/Jack Harkness/Donna Noble

Son Rory, age 5, Lowerwood Primary, above average intelligence

There are dates and addresses and phone numbers, things she’s never told him, things he couldn’t possibly know. Notes to himself of things she’s said, mannerisms.

On an otherwise blank page, he’s written down physical features: the large freckle on the inside of her thigh, her height, weight, natural hair colour.

At the bottom, in tiny script, is a note:

_No tally marks._

Her stomach clenches and her eyes sting and it can’t be. Not him. Not John.

She feels hot and cold all at once. Everything she’s told him, things he’s only seen and heard by being in her bed, written down. She looks for a badge, a passport, anything that will tell her who he is. A reporter? A journalist? A cop? Or worse?

There’s no time.

No time to break down, to panic, to mourn.

From the top shelf of the closet, she grabs her gun and loads it. He’d hated having it there. Said he detested weapons, but she wouldn’t budge, and she’s glad. It’s cold and solid in her hands.

Now she just has to wait.


	12. become the target and the gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

He starts at the feel of her hands over his eyes, her warm breath against his cheek. She nips at his ear, guiding him down the hall while he blusters and blushes. The table is set with his favourite foods, candles sprinkled throughout the apartment. In the living room, he can hear the thin strains of his favourite record.

"For me?"

He blinks rather stupidly, and River smiles. "For you," she says. "Fetch the wine glasses?"

John grins. She can't reach them, up in the highest shelf. As he stretches, she presses back against him, scattering kisses across his neck—he nearly drops the glasses in his haste to turn, to kiss her fully. He's missed her, though it's only been hours. She kisses him heatedly, nipping at his lower lip, and he knows that she's hiding something. She gets aggressive, almost, when there's something bothering her, but he knows not to push it. Not now. He'll wait, and for now, try to sooth her with his hand over her hip, the other moving up to tangle in her hair.

She catches it, curling their fingers together, and he gets lost in the feel of her, the warmth of her. When she breaks away, he's breathing heavily, and River takes a large step back, watching him.

"So," he pants, "What did I do to deserve tha—"

He tries to step forward, but something tugs him back. His wrist. Frowning, he glances down, not sure what to make of the silver cuff around his wrist, the other end attached to the handle on the oven. His first instinct is to blush.

"River—"

His voice dies in his throat. Instead of the cheeky, filthy look on her face he'd been expecting, she's surveying him with cold, narrowed eyes, a gun levelled at his throat.

"River?"

For a long moment, she doesn't say anything. Her expression flickers. Hurt, anger. Then back to nothing, eyes dull. "I dropped an earring."

John clears his throat, testing the bond on the handcuffs. She's done them tight. The metal bites into his wrist. "What?"

Pulling out the dining room chair with her foot, she gestures to the pile of paper on the cushion. He knows immediately what it is; on top rests his blue diary, and he feels the colour drain from his face.

"I thought 'Doctor' was just an arrogant nickname. Turns out I was wrong."

"River, no. It's not what you think, I swear."

"I don't know what to think."

"If you let me explain—"

"Explain _what?_ " she hisses. "Who are you?"

He swallows. "River—"

"Are you a reporter? An investigator?"

"No, _no_ , I'm not—I mean, I am, sort of, I—"

"So you, what? Track down kids associated with this and, what, research them? Study them? Seduce them?"

His neck snaps at that as he shakes his head wildly. "No, absolutely not. River, you're the only one—"

"The only one _what_? The only one you've fucked?"

He winces. " _No._ No, it's not like that, I _swear._ "

"Then what? Who are you?" John swallows, and when he takes too long to answer, she cocks the hammer and levels the gun this head. "I asked you a question."

"My name is John, John Smith, like I told you, I—I'm a principal, it's all true, I swear I just—I also work as a private investigator."

"For whom?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who do you work for, _Doctor_?"

He shakes his head. "Not her. Not Kovarian, I promise you."

"You're lying."

"I'm not. Look at the articles, River. Read them. I don't work for her, I never have. I work on my own. I've been trying—I reunite families, that's what I do. Cold cases. Child abductions. When the police hit a dead end, parents come to me for help."

"Why?"

"Because I'm good at it," he answers honestly. "I'm very good." He hastily continues, "When the case broke about Kovarian, and new evidence came to light I offered to help track down kids that were still missing. There were hundreds, River, I've been at this—I've been doing this for _years._ "

"You have pictures of me. Pictures from before I knew you. How do you explain—" She snatches up a stack of black and white photographs, taken from a distance. She throws them at him, at his feet, one by one. "At the club. At my apartment. With Donna. With my _son._ "

"River—"

"You have notes _about my son,_ " she snaps, voice raised, taking a step closer. "You have photos of him; _you_ wanted him tested. _You_ wanted us to stay here."

"No, _no,_ River I would never hurt him, I swear, I—"

"You expect me to trust you?" Her voice hitches, and he pulls at the cuffs again.

"River, please, please just listen to me. _Listen._ You don't have to believe me but hear what I have to—"

"Why should I?"

He winces. "Please. I swear, I can explain everything." He tugs again at the cuffs, heart seizing as she takes a step back. "What you know, what you think you know, it's a lie, River. I'm here to help."

She tenses. "By doing what?"

"Giving you the truth."

She lets out a short laugh. "The truth? It's a little late for that."

"I know," he breathes. "I know, and River, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I couldn't—I wanted to tell you, I did, I just couldn't; every time I tried, I just—I was afraid."

"Of what?"

He meets her gaze. "Losing you."

She stares back, but her face is blank, empty of emotion. "You've already done that," she says flatly, and John closes his eyes, looking away.

When he's gathered himself, he looks back at her, eyes pained. "Then let me at least make it right for you. For your parents."

River narrows her eyes. "What about my parents?"

John hesitates. He needs to tell her, the truth, everything, but she's so volatile right now, so skittish, he isn't sure that she'll believe him. Isn't sure she'll accept it. Judging by the look in her eyes, though, it's his only chance. So he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tells her. Everything.

"You remember when I told you I was practically raised by the couple next door?"

River frowns. "What does that have to do with—"

"Just—just _listen_ ," he begs. After a tense moment, she nods, lowering the gun just a fraction. He breathes a bit easier. "The couple, they had a daughter that I was friends with when I was young. Her name was Melody. She was—she was my best friend. My only friend." He shakes himself out of the memory. "She was brilliant, even that young. She tested off the charts in…everything they could think to test her for." He smiles brokenly. "She was the only one who could keep up with me."

River scowls. "That's a lovely story, John, but if you don't mind, the _point_ please. Before you lose a limb."

He nods, sniffing. "It's a long story, but the short version is that the intelligence centre that administered the tests was working with an operation based in Florida, seeding them information about the children in exchange for money." He spits the words out. "They never asked what the operation did with the information, but it turned out they were using it to find children of above average intelligence, to take them from their homes and train them—"

"The _short version._ "

"It was Kovarian, River. Kovarian kidnapped children, brought them to Florida, and trained them to be her own personal thieves and spies and assassins."

"Oh, no, Kovarian's a bad person. I'm blown over."

John drags his free hand through his hair and grits his teeth. "You're not _listening,_ River. She didn't find kids on the streets and take them in. They were _stolen._ You were stolen—"

"My parents abandoned me."

"That isn't true."

"And how do you know?"

"Because I was there!" he shouts, his hand slamming back against the cabinets. "I was there, I was supposed to be watching you, it was _my_ fault—"

"What the hell are you—"

"Rory and Amelia. Those are your parents names, right? Rory and Amelia _Pond_ , and their daughter Melody. Your parents didn't abandon you. They didn't leave you by the side of the road for Kovarian to find. You were taken from them, in the park, January 23rd, 1983, and I know because I was _there_. Because I was supposed to keep an eye on you, and I got _distracted._ I looked away. And when I turned back you were gone and there was nothing—no trace, no trail, no ransom. And _still,_ your parents looked after me. They still took me in and loved me and cared for me, and they never told me it was my fault. I found out later, after years of therapy and years of wondering; years of searching for you without even knowing that's what I was doing. I tell everyone I started looking for missing persons because I wanted to help people, because I needed a purpose, but it was a lie. I'm _selfish._ I was looking for Melody, River—I was looking for _you._ "

River stares at him, eyes wide, face pale. Her lips part in attempt to find the words that aren't there. "That's—that's impossible."

John sighs heavily. "I wish it were," he whispers. "I wish all of it were impossible. But it isn't." He looks at her imploringly. "I promised your parents that I would find you. That I would bring you back to them. And when I first met you, that's what it was—I was trying to right a wrong from long ago. But then…but I got to know you. To spend time with you, and I—the more I did the more I couldn't—because you'd have left. My part would have been over and we'd never—" He swallows. "I always thought I was looking for Melody because I owed your parents. Turns out, you're still the only one that understands me."

She shakes her head. "That's insane. I don't remember any of this. I don't remember you, or my parents, or—"

"You wouldn't," he says gently. "You were too young. And too scarred. It's in there, somewhere—but tell a child a lie enough times and eventually they'll believe it. She rewrote your history, River. Through trauma and suggestion and god knows what else."

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to," he murmurs. "But it's the truth." He gestures to the papers on the chair. "Did you read them? The articles?"

She narrows her eyes. "Some of them."

"Read them all," he says. "I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"I'm not uncuffing you if that's what you're after."

John chuckles half-heartedly. "I wouldn't expect it. Read them, River," he coaxes gently. "I'll just wait."

Hesitating, River eyes the stack of papers, then him, before lifting the first one. She doesn't put down the gun, and her gaze flickers to him far too often, but she reads. She reads one, and then the next, occasionally quizzing him on things. Within time, she falls silent. Sits on the floor. She places the gun at her side, and reads all his notes, all the papers, looks at all the photographs.

Buried in the stack, a polaroid falls out. It's worn and creased, showing two young adults, and two children. The boy is wearing a funny hat, and the girl is scowling at it, hand frozen mid air to slap it off his head.

From his spot on the floor, now seated across from her, arm stretched up, John smiles weakly. "That's us," he says. "And your parents. Amy and Rory."

He head shoots up. "Amy?"

"That's what she started to go by, after…" He shrugs one shoulder. "Amy and Rory Williams. Though, they went by Pond most often."

"And the girl—me?"

"Melody. Melody Pond."

River frowns. "My name was Mels. Mels Zucker. That's what—"

"Kovarian told you," he fills in gently.

She shakes her head again. "I don't remember any of this. I don't remember—"

"It's okay," he murmurs. "I wouldn't expect you to. Most of the kids—they had no recollection of their lives before the orphanage. The younger the children, the easier they were to manipulate. To train." He swallows. “You were one of the youngest.”

River brushes a finger over the faces of the adults. "Yeah." She's silent a moment, then: "They were—they were looking for me? All that time?"

John nods. "They still are. They've never given up."

She clears her throat. "What did you tell them, then? About me?"

He hangs his head. "I lied. I told them I hit a dead end. That I'd keep searching."

She scoffs. "Why didn't you just _say_ something to me? Why didn't you just ask? That first day, you could have—"

"I know. With everyone else, I have, but I didn't know how you would react. Most—most are too damaged, too afraid to go home again. And if I told you, and you left, then I'd have destroyed their chance of ever seeing their daughter again. And I'd have destroyed my chance of—"

"Of what?"

"Being yours," he says softly.

River closes her eyes, leaning her head back against the wall. "You _were_ mine," she whispers. "You were everything—" She stops abruptly, opening her eyes to look at him.

"I was afraid. I was afraid it would hurt."

"I believe I could have coped."

He shakes his head. "I thought it would hurt _me._ I knew you could—I knew that whatever happened you'd be able to deal with it. You always have. You were always stronger, even as kids, you—" He chuckles. "You pushed me out of a tree."

River frowns. "The scar—"

"Yeah."

"That was me?"

He nods. "In fairness, I was being a prat."

River takes a slow, deep breath. "This is completely impossible."

"Nothing's impossible."

"I need to think."

He nods. "Any chance you could…?" He jostles the handcuffs.

River glowers, but then hesitates, noticing the bits of crusted blood around the edges. With her gun in one hand, she unlocks the cuffs with the other. John climbs to his feet, rubbing his wrist—it's cut in a few places, not badly, but she hands him a damp wash cloth, her eyes apologetic.

"I'm fine," he assures her.

She nods curtly, moving past him into the living room. At the last moment, he grasps her arm, gently, loosely, not wanting to startle her. "I need you to know this was real. I made a mistake, not telling you everything, I know, but this… _us_ …none of it was a farce. And if I lose you now because of what I've done, I'll accept that, but I won't—I couldn't bear it if you thought I didn't—if you thought you weren't—"

"Weren't what?"

"Precious. To me. You and Rory." She winces, but stays in place. "I would _never_ hurt him. I'd die first. Do you believe me?"

Biting her lip, River nods slowly, and he breathes a sigh of relief. She leaves when he releases her, collapsing into the sofa, her gun resting on the arm. He follows, sitting across from her, where she can see him, keep an eye on him. He owes her that much.

Her voice startles him out of his thoughts. "Where were they from? My parents?"

John clears his throat. "New York. They're still there. Same house."

"They never moved?"

"They thought maybe if they stayed, you'd…find your way home."

River nods, looking down at the photograph in her hand. "I remember sometimes. Red hair. It's only a flash. I always thought it was just someone from the orphanage, or…" She shrugs. "Could it have been her?"

"Probably."

She chews on her lower lip. "Tell me about them."

So he does. He tells her about Amy and her cooking and Scottish brogue and how she never could keep to one career. He tells her about Rory and his love of nursing and caring for people, about his hand-made bird feeders and little garden and how he used to dress up as a Roman centurion every year for Halloween; how Amy always went as a British police officer. He tells her how hard it was for them, after she was taken. How they almost split up. How Amy never could stand the thought of having another child. He tells her about the anniversary they renewed their vows, and how every Christmas they always set a place for their daughter at the table, just in case.

River scrubs away the tear stranded on her cheek, and John wishes he could do something. Wishes he could hold her. Wishes he could go back in time and make it right.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"For what?"

"For a lot of things. For not telling you the truth. For keeping it from you for so long. For being the reason—the reason you were…. in the first place."

At that, River frowns. "You were a child. There's no way you could have—"

"I should have been watching you."

She snorts. "You were, what? Seven? It's not your fault. If anything, my parents should have been—"

"We weren't with your parents," he says quietly. "We were with mine."

"Oh." She shakes her head. "Still. It wasn't your responsibility."

His smile cracks. "You were my friend. I should have protected you."

"Please, sweetie," she huffs, "if this is all true—and I'm not saying I believe it—I think we both know if anyone was protecting anyone it was the other way round. You're afraid of spiders for god's sake."

Even as he quietly delights at the use of her pet name, he tries to keep calm. "Spiders are fine, River, it's just the long legged ones. It's unnatural."

"Really? I'd have thought you'd sympathise."

"Oi!"

She smirks, and he feels lighter, almost like he can breathe again. But then the shadowed look in her eyes returns, and, hesitantly, he moves to the other sofa, sitting within touching distance. He doesn't, though. Just sits and offers silent support as best he can.

She stays a bit longer, asking him a few questions about the cases he's worked. She remembers a few of the kids, asks after others. Eventually, though, she leaves. Packs a bag for herself and Rory. She needs time, she says, to think. To figure things out.

He insists on paying for a hotel for her, and she at least agrees. He gives her a credit card, as much cash as he has on him, and all the files, everything.

She tells him to stay away from Rory, and while his heart breaks, he can't blame her.

“What about her?” River asks, just before she goes. “What about Kovarian? Is she still—”

John flinches. “Escaped. About two years ago. She hasn’t resurfaced since.”

“But she’s out there. If you found me, so can she. She could find everyone.”

He moves to take her hand, then lets it fall to the space between them. “I won’t let that happen.”

“And just how are you going to stop her? You’re a primary school principal, and a—a—an amateur investigator, and she’s one of the most powerful people—”

“She’s _nothing_ ,” he snaps. “Everyone she worked with, everyone who ever aided her is either in prison or dead. She _can’t hurt you._ Not anymore. And they’ll find her. They will. Some day, she’ll slip up, and I’ll be there. We’ll all be there.”

River shakes her head. “I can’t take that chance,” she says, and his heart sinks.

"Will you come back?" he asks, hating the way his voice trembles.

River stares at him with something akin to pity. "I don't know," she answers honestly. "You took away my agency, John. By not telling me. I've had people doing that to me my whole life, and you—" She shakes her head. "It's bad enough from your keepers. It's worse when it's the people you love."

Her admission breaks what's left of his heart, but he holds it in, watches her go.

A few hours later, she cashes out enough money from his card to last a few days, and he knows. He won't see River Song again.


	13. become the river sway; become the love we made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

She dreams every night of a small, faceless boy, and a woman with long red hair. She dreams of the orphanage, Kovarian's pale face and narrowed eyes; of the old caretaker and her friends, the ones she never saved.

During the night, she researches—everything's John's done, every family he's found. She uses her own skills, her own training, to talk to people. Parents, lawyers, cops, victims. She's always been skilled at extracting information—it was one of the things they used her for the most.

They hide out in a little motel in Glasgow for weeks—the more people, the more anonymity, and while she tries to keep Rory distracted and under the assumption it's a vacation, she can't hide everything. Can't stop the nightmares that resurface after decades, and she hates the way he cowers when she bolts upright, a scream half lodged in her throat.

She tries to tell him she's fine, but he's unconvinced.

In the daytime, they take trips to the parks and museums, and she pays cash for everything, unwilling to give anyone any of her names.

Mels Zucker.

River Song.

Melody Pond.

She doesn't remember the latter, but it doesn't escape her notice that her chosen name, the name she created for herself, bears so close a resemblance to her given name, and she wonders if everything's just buried. If over time, she _could_ remember—her parents, her life before the orphanage, John.

She misses him. Desperately. The world seems almost crooked without him, on a strange axis where nothing makes sense. She misses his laughter and his warm hands and his unbearable clumsiness. She misses his rants and his intellect and his willingness to embarrass himself, just to make her son laugh.

Rory misses him too, she knows, by the way he asks, on a near daily basis, when they're going to see him again. When they'll see Auntie Donna and Uncle Jack. If they're moving to Glasgow. When they're going home.

But she needs to be sure. More than anything, she needs to know that Rory will be safe; that the FBI hasn't merely cut off the head of the hydra. That Kovarian's really fallen.

She gets her answer, finally, from an old friend, or partner, rather, that she teamed up with on several occasions on missions. He's in Berlin, and agrees to meet her in Belfast, says he was planning a trip there anyway.

"It's over," he says, sipping a cup of coffee, far more relaxed than she is. She keeps one eye on her car, where she'd told Rory to wait. "There's nothing left. They tore the place down after the investigation; I think someone said they're gonna build a library or some shit." He shrugs, but smiles as he says it, and River eyes him warily.

"And Kovarian?"

He shrugs. "She's on every wanted list known to man. If she shows her face anywhere, they'll know."

"They didn't know what was happening with us," she returns.

"No," he agrees, "but they do now. And it won't happen again."

"You're sure."

He smiles. "We're moving on, Mels. A lot of us. We've got families, friends, jobs. I mean, yeah, a lot of us are in the loony or the slammer, but, not everyone. Not _you_."

She looks away, guilt gnawing at her chest.

"I should have come back. I should have made sure—"

He snorts. "And done what? Got yourself killed? Kovarian had us looking for you for months."

River's eyes widen. "She—"

"Yeah. Bitch was livid." He leans back in his chair. "But about a month later some other brilliant grifter came along, and by that time it was already starting to crumble."

"What'd you mean?"

Owen frowns. "You mean you don't know?"

"Don't know _what_."

He quirks his lips in a wry grin. "You started the revolution. When you got out—like, actually got out, kids started thinking they could do it, too. Bunch of us got together, started making plans. A few people ran off on their own, too. Kids started leaving, 'cause someone gave 'em hope they wouldn't be caught. Didn't work for everyone, but." He shrugs. "That's how I got out. And about half a dozen others—we were just following you."

River stares, mouth slightly open, and Owen laughs.

"Man, I kinda wish you'd been around to see it. Bunch of trained whackos takin' on Kovarian and her thugs. But. Looks like you've done pretty good for yourself."

She nods, but her mind is racing, and she starts when Owen leans forward and covers her hand with his. "Look. I know it's rough. I'm a good talker, but I know—I know what it's like. To have all that shit in your head. But it's okay. It's over now." Pulling back, he lifts his drink to his lips and smiles. "You can go home now, Mels. We can all go home."

\--

After two weeks with no word, he caves and sends Clara to _Idris._ He just needs to know that she’s safe, that she’s all right. But she isn’t there anymore, hasn’t been since the day she found everything. Jack refuses to breathe a word, and while part of him is relieved River has such loyal allies, the larger, louder part of him loathes that he’s done this. That he sent her running, like he always feared.

She’d pulled Rory out of school immediately, official papers citing a death in the family as grounds for early withdrawal. He’d only missed the last few weeks, and John isn’t worried about him academically. But he was starting to make friends, starting to come out of his shell, and he knows River won’t put him back in the same school next fall. Even if she stays in London, which he doubts, she’s too cautious, too careful. She won’t risk it.

And now a boy has been torn out of his home, away from his friends and family, and it’s his fault.

Clara says he’s being overdramatic, and it’s weeks before he can tell her the whole story. She listens, calm and quiet, and when he’s finished, says nothing—simply draws him into a hug, and lets him stay there for a long while.

He finishes out the school year with less enthusiasm than ever, barely managing to keep up appearances. Martha frets, trying to drag him out with her and Mickey, but he always declines, holes himself up in his flat and tries to pretend that the smell of her perfume isn’t fading from his sheets. That she’ll come back to collect the odd sock or t-shirt she’s left behind.

He sees her everywhere: on street corners, in window reflections, out of the corner of his eye. Bells sound like her laughter, every little boy he passes a pale comparison to Rory.

Everything reminds him of them, and he contemplates moving. Getting a new place, a change of scenery. Clara says it’ll be good for him, but he can’t quite manage it. Can’t quite give up the last vestige of their presence.

It’s months before he can face it every day: that he can drag himself from his flat and carry on. He starts looking for other children and families, pouring himself into his work. Amy calls, and he doesn’t answer. Can’t bear to hear her voice. Her disappointment.

So he does what he’s always done best: he runs. Spends more time in coffee shops than at home, so he won’t have to face the empty rooms. He finds a quiet corner cafe that suits him, with dark walls and blue lighting. It’s somber, and fitting, and exactly where Jack finds him one rainy afternoon, sipping tea and penning a letter he’ll never deliver.

“Thought I might find you here.”

John starts so badly he upturns his mug. Jack catches it easily, with barely a spill, and sits down in the chair across from him, expression pinched.

“Jack,” he acknowledges. “How did you—”

“Clara.”

“Ah.”

Jack raises an eyebrow at the letter. “Nice stationary.”

John covers the note with his hands. “What can I do for you?”

“Leave,” he says, and John flinches. “If it were up to me, I’d ask you to leave. Get as far away from her as you can.”

Something stirs in his gut. “But?”

Sighing, Jack pulls an envelope from his pocket, and John’s heart lifts. “Screw up again, and you’ll wish you had. Got it?”

John nods, eagerly snatching the envelope. There’s nothing on the outside, and he waits until Jack has left before opening it, slowly, with trembling hands. Inside is a card, identical to the ones he used to place in her bouquets.

_The full name of the caterpillar from Danger Mouse is "Instar Emperor Nero the Second of Chorlton-Cum-Hardy._

_17/6, 19:00_   
_x_

John blinks, and reads the card again, and again. It’s a clue, he knows, some sort of code, and he quickly gathers his things. He has two days to figure it out.

Two days, and he’ll see her again.

He’ll get her back.

\--

River leans against the railing, back braced against the wind, and checks her watch. 19:06.

He never could get anywhere on time, but she’d hoped, just this once…

It’s still light out, the sky full of purples and oranges, backdropped against the tracks. It was easy enough to get in, and she knows he’ll have no troubles. If he comes.

If he even wants to.

Part of her knows it isn’t the smart thing. She should pack up, take Rory, and move somewhere no one’s ever met her. Put enough time and distance between her and John Smith to let the memories, the smell of him on her clothes, fade.

But she can’t. Isn’t even sure she wants to, not anymore.

She’d tried, of course, for a little while. To blame him. To hate him enough that she could turn the hurt into anger and move on, but she never could. She knows that now.

19:10.

Closing her eyes, River tries to shake off her disappointment, and pushes off from the railing, moving to make her way out of the abandoned station toward her car.

“River.”

Her breathing stalls.

She turns, and he’s there, in the same purple waistcoat, a bit thinner, a bit paler, but him, and it’s all she can do not to launch herself into his arms.

“And what sort of time do you call this?”

“Sorry I’m late,” he pants, brushing a hand through his hair. “Traffic was hell.”

She nods, all the things she’d planned to say dissolved on her tongue. “Did you—did you run here?”

“Do you have any idea how many North Poles there are in the London area?”

“About six?”

“Seven,” he huffs. “Plus a North Pole Road. But no. I ran from my car. I thought you might have—”

She shakes her head. “You’re always late.”

“I know. I wasn’t sure if you’d wait.”

“I did.”

He smiles, a bit shaky, a bit nervous. “How—how are you?”

“I’m good.”

“And Rory?”

She nods. “He’s good. Still angry with me for pulling him out of school.”

John tries to shrug. “He didn’t miss much.”

River fiddles with the sleeves of her jacket. She was supposed to be in control. Supposed to know what to say, how to say it, supposed to stand firm, and in one breathe, he’s taken it all from her.

“I missed you,” she blurts, cursing herself, until she notices his eyes are wet and he’s wringing his hands together as he takes a step closer. “I had to tie up a few loose ends, cover my tracks. Just in case.”

“I understand.”

“It’s strange. Deleting yourself from existence.”

“River—” he tries, but his voice cracks, and all her bravado fails.

“How do I know I can trust you?” she manages. “How do I know—that there isn’t more of this, that there isn’t something else, that there might always be—”

He shakes his head frantically, reaching in the space between them for her hands. “There isn’t. River, I swear. I’m—I’ll tell you anything. Everything you want to know, no secrets or spoilers or—or—nothing.”

“We all have secrets, John.”

“Not like this. I lied to you. I was wrong, I know that, but I…” He takes a deep breath. “Did you know, when we were growing up, there was a house down the street that was said to be haunted. Ghosts. Every time someone went in there, it was all...spooky, nasty...ghostyness. And it turned out, there was a woman, and old woman who died there, and her husband—he died in the war shortly after and when they brought his body home, the whole way, there were storms and lightening and soldiers swore they saw him. His ghost.”

“John, what are you—”

“It’s the oldest story in the universe. This one or any other. Boy and girl fall in love, get separated by events—war, politics. Accidents. She’s thrown out of the hex or he’s thrown into it, and those—that couple, those people, they were… _yearning_ for each other, across the country, across...time and space, and I…” He exhales sharply. “I’ve been looking for you my whole life.”

Biting her lip, River shakes her head. “This isn’t a ghost story, John,” she whispers.

“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t a ghost story.” Crooking a finger under her chin, he lifts her gaze to his. “It’s a love story. It’s always been—”

She doesn’t let him finish. Draws his mouth to hers and tangles her fingers in his hair and kisses him because it’s the only thing left to do. John cups her cheeks in his palms and cradles her, his touch so soft and reverent.

“River,” he gasps, breaking away to press his forehead to hers. “River, I—”

“You’re forgiven,” she murmurs. “Always and completely—”

He captures her mouth again, one arm winding around her back to tug her close, clinging to her like a lifeline.

Her hand drifts, settling over his heart, and she traces the scar she knows is there. John clasps his hand over hers. “Since you pushed me out of a tree.”

River huffs out a laugh. “It doesn’t count if I can’t remember doing it.”

“It totally counts,” he returns, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You and me, River Song.”

She smirks. “Time and space?”

Grinning, John laces their fingers together. “You watch us run.”


	14. we will become, become

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- see part one

_Two months later ___

“I can’t do this.”

John grabs the back of her jacket as she tries to walk away, hauling her back. “Yes, you can.”

Rory jumps up and down next to her. “Yes you can, Mummy!”

River shakes her head, eyeing the blue house with trepidation. “It doesn’t look like they’re home. We’ll come back tomorro—”

John soothes a hand down her arm. “We told them we’d be here today.”

“Yeah,” Rory agrees, patting her leg repeatedly. “John Doctor said Mrs. Amy would let me help make biscuits and they have _really cool_ cookie cutters like dinosaurs and rockets and Mr. Amy said I could feed the birds!” He tugs at her skirt. “They have _birds,_ Mummy.”

River smiles and cuddles him to her thigh. “I know they do, sweetheart.”

“So? Can we go say hi?” He bats his eyes at her. “Please, Mummy?”

John grins. “Yeah, please, Mummy?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Not a chance,” John says, while Rory shouts,

“Bad word! Five p in the jar when we get home.”

River rolls her eyes and throws up her hands, though he can still she’s still nervous. “All right, fine. We’ll go.”

Rory cheers, and John wraps an arm around her waist and places a chaste kiss to her temple. “It’s going to be fine, dear. I promise.”

“What if—what if I’m not what they expect, or want, or—”

“Just be you.”

She snorts. “I’m an ex-thief turned ex-showgirl turned ex-waitress trying to build her own dance studio, for god’s sake, I highly doubt—”

He shushes her with a finger to her lips. “Stop. They’re your parents, River. They won’t care what’s in your past.”

Swallowing heavily, River nods, and lets him guide her across the street, Rory’s hand a comforting weight in hers. They’re barely on the sidewalk when the door opens, and a thin woman with long, red hair steps out, and oh, River thinks, she _knows_ her. Knows that face, those eyes. She knows without touching that her hands will be soft and cool. There’s a lullaby, just out of reach, and she stares, clinging to John’s hand.

On Amy’s heels stands Rory, grey haired and a little haggard, but kind, she knows.

She stares at them and they stare back and no one moves until Rory tugs on her hand. “Are they gramma and grampa?” he whispers, and River nods, not trusting herself to speak.

“You found her,” Amy says, taking a halted step forward.

John nods, letting go of River. He embraces Amy, then Rory, but neither of them take their eyes off River.

“Mummy,” Rory whispers again. “Why is everyone being so quiet?”

River clears her throat. “We’re, um. We’re just—”

“Is it like when James lands on the Nempire State Building and everyone just stares ‘cause he’s in a peach?”

River chokes out a laugh, and Amy hesitates. “You—you remember—?”

John steps in carefully, placing his hands on her son’s shoulders. “Rory’s favourite book is _James and the Giant Peach._ ”

“Oh.” Amy wrings her hands together. “We used to read that,” she says. “To you. When you were—I thought maybe you remembered—” She shakes her head, and Rory takes her hand, still behind her.

“Amy,” he says gently, but she waves a hand.

“It’s okay, I’m okay. Why don’t you all come in, and we’ll—”

“Red wellies.”

Everyone freezes, turning to stare at her. Amy looks ashen, and Rory frowns up at John, who shakes his head and guides him a bit away.

“What did you say?”

River licks her lip. “Red wellies. I had a pair of—and a sweater. A red sweater?”

Amy pauses, then scowls at John. “Did you tell her—”

He holds up his hands. “Nothing. Nothing, scouts honour.”

“I’m sorry,” River says, “I shouldn’t have said anything, I—”

“No, you did. You had red wellies. And a nightgown, with little red—” She stops, sniffling. “Melody?” Her voice breaks, and when River steps forward, that’s all it takes. Amy throws her arms around her, vice-like, and River squeezes her eyes shut against the tears. “It’s okay,” Amy says, “It’s okay, you’re safe now. It’s okay if you don’t remember us; we remember you.”

Struggling to keep her emotions in check, River blinks rapidly and sniffs, wiping her cheek quickly the moment Amy pulls back.

“Oi, Mr. Pond! Get over here.”

With a nod, her father steps forward and hugs her just as fiercely, just as long, and River buries her face in neck.

Behind them, River hears her Rory’s voice, stage-whispering to John, “Are we having a group hug now? Can I have a hug, too?”

River laughs, pulling back from her parents enough to scoop Rory into her arms. “Sweetheart, these are your grandparents, Amy and Rory.”

His mouth falls open. “I’m Rory, too!”

Amy laughs, not even bothering to hide the tears, while her husband stares, open mouthed.

“How did you—”

“I remembered your names,” she answers honestly. “Your first names, anyway, and it seemed—I don’t know. It seemed fitting.”

On her hip, Rory grins. “Mummy says Rory is a Garlic name that means king.”

“Gaelic, sweetheart,” River says, biting down her laughter.

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Are you Gae—Gaerlic?”

“Not really,” Rory manages, torn between looking at his daughter and his grandson.

“That’s okay, I’m not either. There’s also a cool Lion named Rory and I like that better. Being king doesn’t sound fun but having a lion would be _awesome._ ” He pauses. “Do you have a lion, Mr. Amy—I mean, Rory?”

River flushes and John grins in the background, poking her father in the arm. “Mr. Amy!”

“That’s not how it works.”

River snorts at the same time Amy rolls her eyes. “That’s totally how it works,” they say, and Amy beams, her eyes watering again.

“All right, let’s get this show inside before the whole neighbourhood shows up,” she huffs, and when Rivers sets Rory back on the ground, he immediately slides a hand into Amy’s.

“John Doctor said we were going to make biscuits,” he says as they walk up the path to the house.

Amy wipes a tear from her cheek, leading him into the living room. “We can if you want.”

Rory nods eagerly, crawling onto the sofa next to her when she sits down. “I love biscuits, Mrs. Amy.” He frowns, and after a beat of silence announces, “Mummy says you’re my gramma, but you don’t look like a gramma. David at school’s gramma looks like a gramma but she’s old and has really grey hair like Mr. Amy, but you look more like a Nana. Can I call you Nana instead?”

Amy nods wordlessly, and Rory grins. “Okay, Nana.” He pauses for breath. “My birthday’s in 16 and a half days and we always make cake and this year we’re gonna make a _Hulk_ cake with green frosting! You can help if you want!”

Amy glances at River, eager but unsure, and River nods. “If you—”

“We’d love to. You’ll still be here, in New York?”

“We’re here for another month,” River answers, relieved when Rory pipes up,

“Yeah! That means we’ll be here for my birthday, too, and Mummy said we could do _whatever I want_ and I really wanna see the big park and you and Mr. Amy should come with us.” He turns abruptly and stares at Rory, who shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny, and River loves him a bit already. “Mr. Amy doesn’t really look like a grandpa either. Even though he’s got grey hair, so I think I’ll call him—”

“PopPop!” John interjects, giggling at the withering glare he receives from River’s father. “He’d definitely like to be called PopPop, wouldn’t you Mr. Amy?”

“John,” River scolds, but her son has already seized on the idea, clapping and bouncing on the sofa.

“PopPop!”

Despite himself, Rory Pond smiles. “Okay,” he agrees, settling himself into a chair. River hesitates, then sits awkwardly on the edge of the sofa near Rory, relieved when John drops himself between them and plops his feet on the coffee table.

Amy immediately knocks them down, and John huffs, and Rory continues to babble on about biscuits and dinosaurs and his favourite books, and River takes a deep breath, trying to control herself.

Though he acts nonchalant, John keeps a hand on her leg, or her arm, or presses fleeting kisses into her hair, and it isn’t long before her father clears his throat quietly and arches an eyebrow.

“So. You and him, eh?”

River flushes. “He’s….yeah,” she settles, “Me and him.”

Her father nods. “I’m a bit new at this,” he says, “But I do have a sword. In case you ever….” He shrugs, and River laughs softly.

“I’ll remember that.”

“Good.”

“What’s this about swords?”

“Nothing, sweetie,” she says, patting his knee. “Nothing at all.”


End file.
